Veracity
by TheLocket
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a Death Eater, and he has to be a little creative if he wants to do the Dark Lord's bidding. But a little mistake in his spell work leads to a litle fascinating distraction that may ruin everything - and her name is Veracity.
1. The Man in the Dress

A/N: Hey guys! So it's been a while since I had time to write, so I thought I would start a new story! I would really appreciate reviews so I can know if there's anything I need to work on, since it's been so long since I've written. And I really would love any constructive criticism, or just any comments! That said, hope you guys enjoy the newest Draco story!

* * *

I awakened that morning without any blankets on. That usually happens. But what threw me off that morning was my utter lack of pajama bottoms, because I could distinctly remember putting a pair on and had no recollection of removing said pants. In fact, as I lazily ascertained by half-naked status, I found that I was, strangely-enough, not wearing what I went to sleep in. Further exploration discovered satin and lace that probably was meant to be some slinky nightgown but had scrunched up to my bellybutton, something I would never have enough money to own and would never ask my parents to pay for. Conclusion: I was not clothed in my own clothing. As my right hand continued its journey away from my body, it encountered some strange satiny bedding, which did not at all match the expected cheap jersey dorm sheets that I expect. It was this discovery which prompted the premature opening of my eyes, bleary with too much sleep (strangely enough, because by the natural light filtering in from my left it appeared to be sunrise – unless the windows were frosted with pink). I stared straight up into a medieval canopy through a thin film of my somewhat matted hair.

Net result of expedition: utter confusion. Possible explanations: insanity, kidnapped by the Russian mob, and/or dream. Although insanity may have seemed preferable to my Monday morning Psych class that I was, in all probability, late for already, I skirted the option of kidnapping with all the skill of a true procrastinator, and settled on dream. Although kidnapping seemed a bit more romantic. But perhaps that fact ruled it out, due to the boringness of my own existence. I sighed.

The sound I emitted triggered another noise, a clicking noise. My mind, like always, was sluggish with sleep, and I imagined a slow pool of molasses trickling inside my cranium. Great job staying on task in such a crisis situation. Somehow, I wasn't much perturbed. Ah, yes, the clicking. After a few moments I ascertained that it was, most likely, nails of wood. More specifically, someone drumming fingers across a burnished wooden surface. Someone. Another person. I didn't have pants on.

Oh well, freaking out would require more energy then I currently had access to. I stayed staring at the canopy. Even thinking about moving was too strenuous. The tapping was almost in boredom. In agitation. Strange. An agitated, bored person, tapping nails (probably four, from his or her hand minus the thumb) on a shiny wooden surface. Wooden? Most probably. Hmm.

I sat up. A blonde boy, sitting, drumming his nails – impatiently – on:

"A chair," I murmured, sinking back into my cocoon of the silky sheets (green) and my own rumbled hair (brown).

Sitting up was a bad idea. Moving anything quickly in the morning is always a bad idea. I squinched my hands up, bringing fingers in, staring as they curled up like separate little tanned creatures. Then, I released the muscles. My fingers drew back weakly. Still exhausted. The sluggish aspect of my fingers did indicate that I was, indeed, semi-awake, as in, not a dream. But that epiphany could wait until later. I instead used all my brain power to concentrate on moving my toes, making little feet-fists. I rolled my ankles. I sighed again.

The tapping was extremely annoying, the way that my roommate's alarm clock can be, except without that soothing, repetitive quality that turns the siren-beeping into some rhythmic music. Instead, this was annoying. Like, really annoying.

"Please stop," I moaned.

"Stop what?" a harsh voice snapped back. Of course, it came out sounding like a strange foreign language due to his British accent. That took a few moments of my thought to decode it to real English. Then another few minutes muster up the strength to speak and the lucidity to form a coherent sentence.

"The tapping is really annoying." I sounded drunk, but I was too tired to care. I heard him slide his fingers across the wooden surface – chair – and lean back creakily.

"Thank you," I groaned, rolling over onto my side.

From this perspective, I could actually see him, sitting there. He had propped up his face on the chair's arm, and was staring at me as though I was some repulsive slug. A thought occurred to me.

"Am I in your bed?" I asked, seeing the somewhat possessive glint in his gray eyes as he surveyed me.

"Yes," he snapped back.

"Well sor-_ry_," I murmured back, ending up with a chunk of my hair in my mouth. I attempted to spit it out, but somehow my lips fumbled on it, so I had to actually lift my arm to pull the long lock out from between my teeth. He looked utterly repulsed. I couldn't muster up the energy to care.

My blood was starting to un-congeal from it's hibernate mode, and I was able to blink enough so that I could see him clearly. The blondeness was apparent because he was so platinum somewhere Lady Gaga was crying. His face was alright, albeit narrow with a pointed chin that could be attractive, but I was too tired to decide. His eyebrows were dark and flat. His eyes were really pissed off.

"I'm getting up, I'm getting up," I moaned, rolling over once more and half falling out of the bed. My feet hit the carpet and my toes immediately began digging in to the rug – it felt like a Persian. How nice.

Now he was gripping the sides of the chair and his nostrils were flaring. I scratched my head, and my hands caught on the curls. I blinked, and after struggling to disengage my fingers from my hair, I rubbed my eyes. Then I remembered once more that I had no pants on. I was reminded of this by the way his eyes were trailing – quite obviously, without any respect – from my ankle up to where my underwear cut off the curve of my hip.

I was just about awake enough to feel some embarrassment; about a liter of blood that may have aided my somewhat slow mental capacities filtered to my cheeks. I was now officially a strange half-naked chick that ended up in some British blonde kid's bed.

"Bathroom?" I muttered. He jerked his head to the side, and I took that as a crude, masculine attempt at giving directions, and shuffled off incompetently. The second I had left the room, that clicking noise started again. I made sure to slam the door behind me.

Although it took me approximately twenty minutes to get the shower functioning at a condition that near the range of human survival, I was able to fairly quickly remedy my gross situation. I had to use soap, shampoo, and conditioner that I can only assume were his; the musky smell left me feeling like I had become trapped in a bad Axe commercial. It insulted my femininity, but was intriguing. I found myself smelling my own elbows and curls in vague interest. I wondered, is it better to smell like a man or like sweat, but my own girly sweat? But my hair was screaming for attention, so I left that discussion for another time and set to straightening out my matted hair. When I was finally clean (and a strange pink color due to the insane hotness of the water – I never did figure out how to work that shower), I stepped out of the shower and set to fixing my hair. Usually I try to twist it to encourage a few corkscrew curls, but somehow I felt too exhausted and gave up. This may have led to two perfect curls and the rest a somewhat fluffy quasi-curly mass, but I was clearly in no state to care about anything.

I was half-way cleaned up when I ran into the certain probably that you have probably foreseen: clean clothing. The only garments I had access to were someone else's lingerie, lingerie that may currently belong to some psycho-raper-killer-British guy. I felt happily clean and was in no mood to re-don this questionable clothing. The towel was pearly white and smelled clean enough. Anyway, it was fluffy and comforting after that scary silky clothing that was so alien to my college-budgeted fingers.

The bathroom door creaked ominously, and I found him seated exactly as I had left him.

"Hey." I chucked the lingerie at him, and he jerked in his seat as though it was infested with STDs – it probably was, I reminded myself.

He picked it up between thumb and forefinger and deposited the expensive garment on his expensive rug. When he finally looked up at me and realized that I was just wearing a towel, he huddled into the back of his chair as though I were a truly frightening beast.

"Care to explain why I was wearing that?" I pointed at the heap of satin, like I was punishing a small child.

"Don't ask me," he mumbled.

"Alright." I sat down on the bed, swinging my bare legs. "Can you explain where I am? Is this some dorm across the quad?" I glanced up at the tapestries. Whatever it was, it was pricey.

He scowled at me. "Something like that," he replied.

This rankled me. He was hiding something.

"Really." I sounded unimpressed.

"No, not really," he muttered. Now he was staring at the floor as though Christmas had been canceled. I made that annoying huffing noise my dad always hates, the one I always make when I'm completely frustrated.

"Can I have some clothing?" I asked. This made him look more upset. "Some food? Something to drink?"

He was now glaring at me.

"Some _tea_?" This didn't register. "Isn't that what you guys drink?" I was freezing now, hunching my shoulders and pulling the towel tighter across my body. Unfortunately, this discomfort was coloring my tone.

"Haven't you ever heard of hospitality?" I growled.

"That would imply that you are my guest," he retorted, equally as angrily.

"Oh, so are you implying that I came here on my own volition?" I sneered. He shut up like a clam about to be dropped in a stewpot and resumed his brooding. This proved my guess, that I hadn't just had too much to drink last night and ended up in some strange bedroom. Although that was a plus for my ability to limit my alcohol consumption, the alternative – that I had been brought here – was not that great either. A few more moments passed. He did not move.

"Fine, then, I'm leaving." I stood up and strode angrily to the door. Towel or no towel, I was getting out of that room. The walk of shame in a towel is not completely unheard of, right?

Except the door was locked. I pulled at it fruitlessly for a few moments, then turned angrily on him.

"Key?" I asked. Maybe he responded better to simple, monosyllabic questions.

He glared at me. Apparently not.

I shuffled back to the bed.

"This really isn't alright!" I replied. "I don't know what happened last night, but however you got me here or whatever you gave me, I don't do drugs and I'm underage so I shouldn't be drinking and so I think I have a right to just go home and-"

He cut me off by raising his hand.

"Shut. Up."

Now he was holding his head between the thumb and pointer of his right hand, massaging his temples as though he had the greatest migraine.

"I'm not going to _shut up_," I replied, equally annoyed. "I want some clothing and some food and something to _drink_ and some explanation and I think—"

This time he actually pulled something out of his pocket and waved it at me, muttering some Latin gibberish.

I snorted. "What was that?" I asked.

He stared at the long slender piece of wood he was holding like a conductor's baton. I heard him mutter something that sounded like, "Why didn't it work?" and then my words registered on him. He looked up very slowly, as though I was a rabid raccoon.

"What do you think this is?" he asked, looking horrified.

"A stick?" I asked, swinging my legs irritably. He now looked like he had just been told that Britney had shaved her head.

"What is it?" I asked, trying not to sound as interested as I was. "A baton?"

He was now staring at his shiny shoes in utter horror.

"A pencil?"

He was pinching along his strange instrument as though it contained something important with magical qualities.

"That isn't some freaky sex toy, is it?" I asked cautiously. This got his attention.

"No," he snapped, shoving it back into his right pants pocket.

"You never know," I replied, embarrassed. It was apparently something really important. At this point my annoyance was wearing off and I was left feeling sincerely embarrassed.

"Can I _please_ have some clothes?" I begged, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

This registered on his face, and his crinkled brows relaxed somewhat. With a world-weary sigh, he got up, walked to his bureau, and pulled out a large green t-shirt with a snake emblazoned on the front.

"Thanks," I murmured, fleeing to bathroom to change.

When I emerged, he still hadn't moved.

"Cool shirt," I replied shyly. It at least covered the edges of my underwear, and it was soft and worn as though it had survived many washes. It felt nice, and, I hated to admit it, it smelled nice to.

Now that I was actually fully awake and fully clothed, I was actually able to be fairly-human. He didn't seem like a bad guy. Certainly wasn't Russian mob like I feared, and he just looked like a normal college dude that found some half-naked American chick in his bed. This whole thing was probably just as unsettling for him as it was for me. That didn't make it alright, mind you, but it did not condone my behavior either.

I was never one for many apologies, but this one could prove necessary to my survival, so I set my jaw and turned to him.

"Sorry I attacked you, you just really freaked me out with the whole different place/different clothes thing, and my mom always says there's no talking to me before breakfast."

He seemed to respond more favorably to my normal, quieter speaking voice that was no longer barking at him. But unfortunately, he made no move to speak.

"This is usually the part where you tell me it's okay, and then explain how the hell I got here," I encouraged gently, sitting down once more on the bed and curling my bare legs up under my crossed arms.

"Usually?" he replied, his morose tone somewhat colored by amusement. "Does this sort of thing happen to you on a regular basis?"

Once again I felt that betraying stain of warmth filter into my cheeks.

"No," I replied shortly, hugging my legs closer. "You?"

He shook his head.

"Should we start with names?" I asked. "Since I don't know where I am and how I got here, I think I should at least know who brought me here."

"What makes me think I brought you here?" he asked. He no longer sounded angry or anxious – only intrigued by my intuitive leap.

"Well, you are the only person I've seen, you were waiting for me to wake up…"

"I could have been brought here and locked in here, same as you," he reminded me.

"Fair point," I replied. "It's plausible."

He relaxed somewhat.

"But not true," I continued.

Now he was searching my face intently. "What makes you think that?" he inquired harshly.

"I dunno," I replied honestly. "You said it was _your_ bed, and then that whole magical stick thing…"

"'Magical'?" he repeated, squinching up those eyebrows again.

"Religious. Whatever. I don't mean to insult your beliefs, I'm fine with it, but if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm just going to have to make assumptions."

"No, magical was a better word," he replied, too-casually. Now it was my turn to stare.

"Alright, you're insane." I stood up and walked to the door, but couldn't bring myself to try to open it – I knew it was locked. He sighed again.

"I'm Draco," he replied resignedly, looking close to tears at this point.

"Is that your name?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes," he snapped, scowling.

"Sorry, I've just never heard that before." Shock still affected my tone, and he noticed it, but chose to ignore it.

"Vera," I replied.

"Is that your name?" he asked in a mocking falsetto. I scowled.

"Can you just tell me what happened?" I asked.

He stared at me for a minute. "Fine," he snapped. "I wanted to bring someone here," he continued, waving the stick around a little more absentmindedly, "but instead it was you and it was a mistake and now I can't send you back."

"And the lingerie?" I prompted. I was fascinated when his face colored.

"A mistake," he replied, but there was something else in his voice. Regret? Embarrassment? Prevarication?

"So you think you cast some spell with that stick of yours and I magically poofed here but you wanted someone else?" I recapitulated.

"Yes." He replied, sounding surprised by my apparent attention to his insane mutterings.

"Yeah, definitely crazy," I mumbled, turning back to the door.

"I can't let you out of here," he mumbled, reclining now in his chair with a comfort that upset me and threatened to shatter the calm I had been so carefully building.

"Why ever not, Mr. British?" I asked snarkily.

"Well…" he hesitated for a moment, and then I saw this little evil glint in his silver eyes, as though he was legitimately enjoying my situation and the reaction he was sure the following explanation would warrant. "We're in a school of wizardry and we aren't technically allowed to have muggles on premises, especially since the headmaster increased security following the return of the Dark Lord."

I stared at him, and then replied slowly, "So you think that you are a wizard in a school of magic being attacked by a _dark lord _and I'm a muggle who can't leave but also can't be here."

He raised an eyebrow. "Correct."

"How nice," I replied nastily.

"What do you think?" he asked, leaning forward in true interest.

"Me?" I asked, turning and pulling on the door. "I think that you are" – I huffed, pulling on the wrought iron – "_crazy _and this is some insane asylum. Which means I am" – more huffing – "also crazy. Which, although not very _comforting_" – huff huff – "is at least _possible_."

"It's plausible," he agreed dryly. "But not true."

I gave up on the door and turned to glare at him. He glared right back, a somewhat attractive, simmering glare. I felt my face go numb as I stared at him for too long, my scowl melting away into that awestruck, insipid expression I seemed to carry around attractive men. At least his expression seemed to soften somewhat also, although a little teasing smile remained.

"So, solution?" he inquired facetiously.

"Kill you and leave." I offered angrily, regaining control of my expression.

"How do you open the door?" he sounded politely interested as though we were discussing this over tea in his little British home somewhere.

"At least I get rid of half my problems," I growled back. He actually laughed, but it was a dark laugh.

"Don't try to convince me," he warned, a nasty note in his voice. But there was something playful in his gray eyes.

"How about you Mr. Wizard?" I asked as insultingly as I could manage. His face fell again.

"Me..." he stared at the ground. His words came slower, as though he was just thinking them through for the first time, an epiphany as he spoke. "I am in a lot of trouble." His fingers began massaging the forearm of his opposite arm.

"And how do you figure that?" I asked archly.

He turned to look at the door as though this held the answer, and I turned also. As I watched, a beam of yellow light shone through the lock mechanism, and then the knob slowly began to turn.

The door suddenly swung open to reveal a tall man in a black dress. He had stringy black hair that was in some unflattering bowl cut that had grown out for several years so that it swung, choppily, at his chin.

"Mis-ter Mal-foy," he said. I say it like that, because he drew out every word as though tasting it on his tongue. But to be fair, if I had a voice like his – so deep, so sonorous – I would have talked just as slowly to hear my own luscious voice. Then it all made sense: that beautiful voice allowed him to wear that black gown with matching black cape. No one questions a dude with a voice like that. Alright. I can live with that.

The British boy – Draco Malfoy, what a horrific name, his parents must be evil – glanced with faked innocence at the man in the black dress. In a snappy movement, the tall man turned to look at me, so that his black androgynous hair swung in the breeze. I flinched at his twitchiness.

"And you are?" he inquired. His eyes were black like tar and glared at me the way Draco had, like I was something disgusting, but without the softness that Draco's somewhat softer, unjaded expression offered.

"Vera," I offered timidly. He turned back to face Draco.

"A mistake, I gather," the tall man said, rolling his eyes.

Draco scowled. "It was just an attempt."

"Mistakes cannot be tolerated." His voice like velvet made me want to like him, but the sneering tone and the words pouring out of him made me want to wring his neck.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Draco stared defiantly at the tall man.

"The headmaster wants to see you," the man intoned, finally breaking the silence. These words must have implied something more than expulsion because Draco blanched but put on that stupid male-unconcern that painted him a douchebag – had it not been for the terrified look in his still-baby eyes.

The man swirled – enjoying the dress too much, I think – and gestured brusquely for us to follow. Out the door led to a small corridor, and at the end of the hallway came a wave of cool air that carried the voices of what sounded like hundreds of students. We paced towards this noise, single-file, me as far from the man with the beautiful voice and evil words as I could manage.

"Draco," I murmured. He turned, his face open and his eyes surprised, as though it was nice to hear me finally speak his name despite the predicament he found himself in.

"Yeah?" he murmured.

"I'm still not wearing any pants."

He grinned, despite the fear that was still clinging to his gray eyes. And I could have sworn that I heard that tall man in the black dress snicker to himself.


	2. The Guy with the Cartwheeling Shotglass

"Here." Draco shrugged off some sort of black, outer-robe he was wearing over his little school boy uniform. I accepted as gracefully as a half-naked girl can, wrapping my bare legs in the still-warm fabric.

The walk was silent, but for a few stares I received in the hallway. I would have spent my time happily content feeling like an embarrassed, unclothed outsider, but I was more interested in my surroundings.

"Are those plasmas?" I asked, pointing at the square screens – they must have been small, flat screen televisions – that lined the walls. Inside them, different movies were playing. Most were unfamiliar – a strange fat lady in a pink dress, a few hippos grazing – but I determined they were all educational programs. At my question, the man in the dress twirled and gave Draco some withering glare, raising an eyebrow in shock. Their little secret exchange was unpleasant, so I butted in with all my American bluntness: "What did you say your name was?"

Now the man in the dress glared at me. It was a terrifying moment, like he was staring right through me, like he could see all the flaws in me – those two extra-curly curls, the fact that I smelled like a man, the pink flush that stained my cheeks – but I kept my poker face on, crossing my arms and attempting to raise my eyebrow. Something made him smile viciously (probably my horrific attempt at seeming tough) and he wheeled and continued walking.

I turned to Draco in a huff. He glanced at me and shook his head.

"Where are you from, Miss Vera?" the man in the dress asked without turning, continuing his brisk walk down the flat screen lined hallways. He was walking so quickly that his choppy haircut was blowing in the wind like a Pantene Pro-V commercial and his robe and dress were frolicking in his wake. I realized now that people took him seriously for more than just his voice – this dude was seriously scary.

I crossed my arms defiantly and set my jaw that way when I know I'm going to get in trouble but I'm doing it anyway. Draco vacillated for a moment, as we all continued our brisk march down the hallway. There was an uneasy silence. I swore I saw Draco open his mouth as though he was going to urge me to talk, but then I think he caught a glimpse of my expression and decided against it. I wasn't going to take shit from this man with bad fashion sense and cankles, no matter how mellifluously British his voice was.

The evil man smirked again to himself – I could see his cheeks rise in sycophantic glee – but continued his little hip-swinging stride. I decide conclusively that I hated him, hated the way that Draco was lurking somewhat subserviently in his shadow, like a misbehaving puppy that was following its master after it gnawed on his favorite slippers.

Actually, there was something distinctly puppy-like on Draco's face, in the curving on his full, pink lips. A strange trait on such a harsh complexion, but I liked it. His eyes weren't that Disney Prince blue, but they had an interesting silver sheen, like they were reflecting the silver spoon that he had probably been born with. It was easy to see; he had a signet ring, like some guy out of The Godfather, and as he paced the corridors and other people saw him, he looked back with the casual indifference of someone who owns the place. At one point he even stopped and stared down these three kids who were looking with blantant, rude interest at our little procession. But mostly he carried himself with the confidence of a king, as girls turned to glance over his perfect body and other males looked enviously at his power. His eyelashes were surprisingly dark, like his eyebrows, for such light hair, and brushed against his cheeks when he smiled and blinked at the same time.

To my utmost embarrassment, my bare toes chose that moment to collide with the shiny stone floors, and I stumbled on the perfectly flat surface with all the grace of a true klutz. The man in the dress whirled to glare at me, as though I wasn't allowed the fortune of stubbing three of my toes, and Draco glanced at me in a combination of mirth, worry, and fascination. As though thinking, _why am I stuck with such an idiot, how is she such an idiot, and is she alright?_ – all at one moment. His eyebrows crinkled, as though his face couldn't choose the dominant emotion and instead remained confused.

"Sorry," I muttered, stupidly apologizing for injuring myself. Really, who does that? It was an awkward moment nonetheless, where Draco glanced away, the man in the dress looked further resigned, and I blushed to some extremely attractive color that perfectly offset the green t-shirt I was wearing.

"Please make sure she doesn't draw even _more_ attention to herself," the man in the dress whisper-sneered at Draco, just loud enough so that I could hear. What a total douche. I silently wished him a painful death by something gross and unpleasant, like a cockroach or a giant snake.

Draco nodded penitently, as though I was his responsibility, and slid a large, strong hand over my shoulders, wrapping his arm around me so that I was half-pinned and half-snuggled into his large, muscular chest. However, the moment I looked up at him (and I say up because he was a good foot taller than me) I saw he was grinning, as though I was a most pleasant burden. I sighed. His grin stretched into a one-sided smirk, and he began to tap the fingers of his left hand across my shoulder, pointer through pinky, as he steered me down the hallway. I pushed a fist into his chest in my failed version of a punch, and he actually laughed aloud at our silent repartee. The man in the black dress swirled, glared, and this sobered Draco. We continued walking down the hallway in silence.

I noticed at some point that there were torches on the walls.

"That isn't really environmentally responsible," I whispered up into Draco's ear.

"Huh?"

I indicated the torches. "They burn and consume oxygen, and produce carbon-dioxide, which is a greenhouse gas that is contributing to global warming," I recited dutifully.

Draco looked at me like I was from a different planet, leaning away from me and loosening the somewhat tight grip he had been holding me in.

"Alright?" He looked increasingly confused by me. I shook my head at this building's lack of environmental consciousness – whatever this building was.

* * *

Where ever we were walking, it was very far away. Being barefoot and all left me quite cold and prone to stepping on many little feathers that were littered about the floor. I stepped on one particularly sharp one and lifted up my foot to investigate. My big toe was stained blue.

"Are these feather quills?" I asked unbelievingly. Draco looked like he was uncertain how to respond.

"Possibly?" he offered, questioningly. I saw the man in the dress incline his head to our conversation. He obviously didn't like me asking questions. So I decided I should do just that.

"So how old is this place anyway?" I asked. We walked down a large flight, around a bend, down a carpeted hallway where my toes were slightly warmer, through a large wooded, iron-hinged door, and –

"Oh my." I embarrassed myself by my own exclamation, but was lost. The area was like a stairwell, except gigantic. We had been trundling down spiral staircases and larger, grand staircases. But these hugged the walls in maze-like, turning, narrow flights. The area could have housed a few basketball courts easily, and appeared to be at least ten stories high of perfectly open space, where voices echoed and thousands of doorways seemed to hide a million different rooms. I glanced over the rail and was surprised by the first floor so far below, where students were milling about in large groups.

I didn't even notice when the man in the dress turned to give us the umpteenth angry glance; I only heard his impatient harrumphing, and turned to continue. As we pattered down the first flight, I noticed we were passing more of those little movies. Up close, they lacked the sheen of any screen I had seen. More startlingly, it appeared that the characters in the movie were watching us, eye contact I had never seen before in any film.

"This is fascinating tech," I murmured, reaching out to touch the un-shiny surface.

Draco made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, then reached out and pulled my hand away.

"We should keep going," he muttered. But that smile of his was gone – something in the way I had looked at those screens had brought back that hopeless glimmer in his sad gray eyes. I felt my own intrigue and happiness siphon off as we continued our way across the building.

I was quite out of breath when we finally stopped. The man in the dress was standing before a very interesting statue. He paused to look at me, and then at Draco, who shrugged.

"Nice gryphon," I said loudly, interrupting whatever silent conversation they were attempting to have yet again.

"You know your mythological creatures, Miss Vera," the man in the dress replied condescendingly.

I thought for a moment, staring at him as I tried to come up with some extremely-insulting reply.

"Yes, I do." It was lame, but it was better than saying nothing. Despite my attempts to keep my face stern, the man saw his victory and his eyes gleamed with happiness at my defeat.

He swung back towards the stone statue – hair, cape, and dress following slowly – and spread out his arms as though regarding a large audience.

"Butterscotch toffee," he said clearly and slowly, sounding partially proud but mostly humiliated. The statue appeared to spring to life and swing away, spinning up a large staircase that continued rotating as the man in the dress turned to look at me. He had that same expression Draco had before he told me his version of the truth, that knowing glance filled with amusement. I tried to keep my face bland, to not give him the triumph of seeing my confusion and fear.

"Really nice tech you have hear," I said appreciatively, faking superciliousness. I patted the stone archway that led to the stairs. "Voice activated, mechanized, completely wireless and cordless. Nice."

The man in the dress looked absolutely terrifying at this point – his lips stretched so far in a grin that I could see his yellowing teeth. I couldn't hold back a shiver.

"Shall we?" I asked, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. Anything to get away from that evil grin.

"You first, Miss Vera," he replied with malicious amusement, indicating the doorway. I hesitated, but Draco glared at the man in the dress, brushed past me, and began climbing the stairs. I followed him, and the man followed me. I tried not to stare as the little statue closed the way behind us and the stairs began spiraling up like an escalator. Draco glanced back and saw me clinging to the stone railing, my fingers turning white as I clutched the moving stone, and tried to give me a reassuring look. Seeing the poorly-masked hysteria in his eyes, I tried my best to return the kind look. But we both remained silent. I could hear the whooshing of the man's dress behind me as it brushed against the stone steps. At last we reached the top, and a large wooden door creaked open ominously to reveal a large, open chamber.

"Draco!" came a patiently jubilant voice. I couldn't see who spoke, but only saw Draco's shoulders stiffen beneath the starched white fabric of his shirt. I peered around his square shoulders, hiding behind him, and saw a large desk. It was covered in little whizzing contraptions, like spinning tops and Newton's cradles all scurrying around in place apparently by themselves. A small, wrinkled, pale hand was fiddling with what appeared to be a shot glass; when the fingers released it, it began to cartwheel around as though magnetized to the desk.

The hand retreated into a large bell sleeve, that may have been bright gold at one point but was dulled brown by age; it was embroidered as intensely with some Vera Bradley-esque design. I traced the fabric up to where it was abruptly cut off by a waterfall of frizzy white hair. This beard traced up to a little wrinkled face, where, over half-moon glasses, the clearest blue eyes were smiling at Draco and me with pure joy.

"And you brought a friend!" he sounded extremely happy and his thin lips stretched in a smile, but his tone was even and slow, as though even in this relaxed happiness he commanded respect.

There was a short silence, punctuated by the clanking of the cart-wheeling shot glass and the whistling of one of the spinning tops.

"Hi," I offered lamely, waving from behind Draco's imposing frame.

"So," the bearded man said, pulling over chairs I hadn't seen before and fluidly indicating that we sit, "would you like to explain how you came to be in my school?"

Although his tone was still light and the kind smile remained on his face, I sensed a note of urgency in his tone, as though something were truly wrong.

"I- " for a moment I stuttered hopelessly, glanced at Draco, even at the man in the dress, for some answers. Then I turned back to the little shriveled man who seemed more powerful than Draco and the man in the dress combined just by the way those blue eyes were staring at me over those half-moon spectacles.

"I know you're mad at Draco."

"Do you?" The old man looked surprised, raising his eyebrows and glancing at Draco knowingly.

"I don't know what sort of crazy British terrorist/drug/secret society war-thing I stepped into, but Draco didn't mean to break your security and I certainly am not affiliated with _any_ lords, dark or otherwise," – the man in the dress flinched, and the old man gave Draco another knowing glance, as though there hadn't been enough of those already – "and I just would like to go home and leave everyone alone."

"Is that all you would like, Miss Vera." His tone was quiet, a statement phrased as a question, although he already knew the answer would be a resounding negative. This old man was way too calm and seemed almost politely condescending, as though he knew everything in the world and I shouldn't even speak.

"Well…"

"Yes?"

"I would also like some pants," I muttered, blushing.

The man in the dress looked furious, and Draco appeared extremely embarrassed, as though he had removed my original pair of pants to begin with (had he?), but the old man laughed appreciatively, a full laugh that made up for all our silences.

"Of course, of course, but there are other important details to see to first. I assume you are comfortable in Mr. Malfoy's robe for the present time and so we shall remedy that later. But for now, can you please explain how you came to be here?"  
I quickly relayed what had happened, leaving out any references Draco made towards magic for fear of exposing his insanity. At these parts, he looked at me with an extra-terrified look, so I took this as a cue to remain shut about the magic stick and his little ravings about being a wizard. This left some rather-large gaps in my story and it left me looking decidedly bipolar in my mood swings, but I took the hit for fear of losing Draco to a mental institution. The old man seemed to catch on – his eyes took on this keen, measuring look – but he said nothing.

"And then this man in his little dress came to collect me and here we are," I ended lamely. More sneering from the man, more laughter from the old man.

"How rude. Names, names would be helpful. I am Professor Dumbledore – well, my full name is Albus Percival Wulfic Brian Dumbledore, but that's a lot of names. And this is Severus Snape."

I stared for a moment.

"Something wrong?" Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore asked, sounding truly concerned.

"Nothing," I said, shaking my head and staring down at my bare toes. "You all just have _very_ interesting names." I was getting used to his chuckle enough so that I could ignore the glaring silence from the other two.

Dumbledore fiddled with the contraptions on his desk.

"Well, shall we get started." The other two stood up.

"With what exactly?" I asked, standing hesitantly.

"Sending you home," replied Dumbledore, as though this was exceptionally obvious. "And, of course, getting you pants," he added as an afterthought, chuckling again.

He reached under his desk and pulled out a pair of gym shorts. They were pink and in my size. How strange for a headmaster to keep girls' gym shorts under his desk, but maybe there was a lost and found there. I reached out for the pants.

As my fingers came close to the fabric, they missed entirely.

"Oops," I muttered, reaching out again. Nothing. My fingers felt only air.

"Intriguing," muttered Dumbledore, placing the shorts on his desk. The little glass that had been flipping over his desk settled into the fabric and appeared to fill up with an amber liquid. What an interesting trick of the light.

"Severus?" asked Dumbledore. The man in the dress drew his own baton with a flourish, sending his sleeves billowing, and brandished it at me. I stared in utter confusion. The old man did the same.

"Fascinating, me neither." Dumbledore turned to Draco. "Did the same happen with you?"

"Yes," Draco said to his shiny black shoes.

"Am I missing something?" I tried tentatively.

"Yes, actually," replied Dumbledore in a genial tone. "You see, we are all wizards" - he didn't even pause to give me a moment to digest this - "and Draco somehow summoned you, but now none of us can send you back, or indeed charm, hex, curse, or affect you in anyway. You appear impervious to magic."

The contraptions whirled and whistled.

"That's nice," I offered tentatively, shrinking into Draco's cloak. What kind of insane asylum was this?

"Don't misunderstand, you are perfectly normal," the old headmaster said comfortingly. "I believe this may have to do with the circumstance of your arrival, if Mr. Malfoy would like to shed some light on the situation."

"I can't," muttered Draco, looking absolutely miserable. "I just…" he hesitated. "I just wanted to talk to my dad, and then… she showed up instead."

Dumbledore looked genuinely sad. I wondered if Draco's father were dead and if he was truly insane enough to consider conjuring a ghost. I was certain that there were no such things as ghost - the fantastic really had no place in my understanding of the world - but determined I could accept that people could believe they were wizards, even if I didn't believe that there were wizards. So, as far as Draco Malfoy, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and Severus Snape were concerned, they _were_ wizards. I would deal with that. Clearly, however, they could not actually do any magic - they had proven that - but I would accept their insanity.

"Well, Miss Vera, I have a suggestion."

I wasn't sure if I really had a choice, but I nodded anyway. For a crazy person he was relatively personable, kind, and calming.

"I have some idea of your condition," the professor continued, "and I am something of a genius" – somehow this came off sounding sweet and not at all self-centered – "so I am almost never wrong. However, I would like you to remain in Draco's custody as his… guest… for the time being until I can be certain of how to send you home."

I stared at him.

"May I contact my family?" I asked hesitantly.

"Already done," Dumbledore replied airly, waving a bell-sleeved arm casually. "So, pip-pip, you are late for a Transfiguration class."

I was staring at the Santa Clause, the he-she, and the beautiful blonde boy in utter confusion, when I heard the door slam open behind me. We all wheeled to see a stringy black-haired boy with utterly nerdy glasses.

"Ah, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly, utterly nonplussed.

"Did you see what Draco did?" the Harry-beast roared.

"Quite alright, I have it under control," Dumbledore replied.

"He's trying to get Death Eaters into the castle!" the little string-bean continued angrily, a little-baby temper-tantrum. "He conjured that little... _thing_" – he indicated me with a wave of his unattractive hand, and Draco bristled beside me angrily – "by accident instead!"

There was a very uneasy silence. I hated this boy. What a little prick.

"That's a very interesting theory, Harry," murmured Dumbledore. "Do not think I will not take it into consideration."

At this point both Draco and Severus looked resolutely uncomfortable.

"But," the headmaster continued smoothly, "for now I think the three of you should continue upstairs or Professor McGonagall will be very frustrated with me."

He gave us all a stern look over his glasses, and Harry whirled angrily to go. Draco shook himself angrily as though trying to restrain his temper, and strode off after Harry.

"Uhm, Professor?" I managed timidly. He seemed to immediately understand.

"Oh yes!" he exclaimed. "How foolish of me!"

He walked to a cabinet and removed a perfectly-folded stack containing a skirt, shirt, tie, and sweater.

"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Miss Cole," he said politely, handing me the uniform.

It was only until I reached the end of the staircase that I realized I had never told him my full name.


	3. The Rabbit Murderer

The two boys were both hurrying as though they were secretly trying to beat each other to where ever they were going. Unfortunately for me, since Draco was easily the taller and stronger of the two, owing to his perfect construction and Adonis musculature, this meant that I had to walk past the sulky man-child in order to reach him. Regardless, I had to trot to catch up. The professor had left me a pair of black pumps (I certainly hope they weren't his...), which did not help my little speed-chase. I felt like I was such a poser as I heard the crisp tapping noise of those borrowed heels and felt the swishing of that stolen skirt across my thighs.

"Hey," I said breathlessly as I fell into Draco's shadow. He turned at my voice, and the harsh look (that had stolen over his features since the arrival of the angsty beast to my left) softened somewhat. I was surprised as a little naughty look stole into his eyes as they slithered over my new outfit in a way that both repulsed and attracted me. I punched him again. He laughed, again. Apparently I needed to work on my right hook.

"Dis-gust-ing," I heard the Harry-beast whisper, drawing out each sound in blatant insolence, just loud enough in that little English accent so that I could hear every syllable. Draco stiffened again – it was like the boy to my left was his puppet-master, and when he spoke all the strings tightened and Draco was strung up into some bad temper. Just as I hated that Severus Snape for controlling Draco, I hated this little black haired monster for messing with him.

But wait. I should be siding with him, shouldn't I? We were rushing past those little screens again, my heels tapping away on the stone and then shushing romantically across the carpets, and it was all just going too fast. This boy, the sexy, tall, strong blonde boy beside me, had abducted me from my house, convinced me that he was a wizard (or that he thought he was a wizard), dragged me to his principal, and was now glancing over me with a degree of familiarity as though every inch of me belonged to him. Wasn't Harry right to be hating him, hating him for objectifying me and using me and staring at the bared curve of my collarbone in a way that can only be described as extremely intoxicating…

I had to stop then, in the hallway, and shake myself. I ran a hand through my hair, loosening a few curls. They fell into my face, smothering me. I felt strangled. Just breathe.

"Are you alright?" That must have been Harry, sounding concerned for once. So he didn't hate me, just Draco.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Draco had never asked that. "I just… it's a lot to take in."

Harry turned on his more beautiful adversary.

"Is she a Muggle?" he demanded. Draco wheeled and strode off down the hallway. I couldn't let him leave, I had to follow, but it was a breathless, unhappy chase. His pace was slower now – fleeing away from me although unwillingly, not willingly with me towards the class.

"How are you handling this?" Harry intoned quietly, no longer a show for Draco – this was all for me. His green eyes were serious, as though I was some poor damsel in distress dangling off a cliff and he was the one with the tree branch offering me an arm up. And Draco… Draco was that ocean beneath that was utterly the perfect poison that I wanted – but was cold. He had never been interested in my feelings… only interested in me, in my intuitive leaps, in my way of stumbling over words, in my teasing smile and funny right hook, in my bare legs skimming across his silken sheets…

"I think I have a handle on things."

Harry raised an eyebrow, and I watched as it rose above his round glasses. Then I had to remember that he was thinking about magical spells and cauldrons and brooms, not Draco's bed.

"No, really," I continued, fighting to stay on task. "I've decided that if you guys think that everyone at this school is a wizard, then you can be completely right – I believe that you can believe that you are a wizard."

"Or witch," Draco corrected without turning. He was cold now, shut off, that way he had been when I looked at the little televisions. Whenever I said something he couldn't follow, that didn't fit into his little world.

"What?"

"The girls," he repeated, turning slowly and fixing me with that eerily gorgeous glance of his, "are witches."

He turned sharply before I could see that there was something besides coldness in his gray eyes and swung open another ancient looking door that creaked on its hinges.

"How kind of you to join us, Mr. Malfoy," a stern-faced older woman said haughtily. "And Mr. Potter. I see you've brought Miss Cole as well."

Apparently I missed something. The whole classroom turned to look at me.

"I'm sorry if I'm intruding," I offered as politely as I could manage, feeling like such an outsider. All the girls – witches, I reminded myself, they thought themselves _witches_ – were wearing exactly what I wore. I felt like such a fake, such a fraud, such a pretender in my little costume.

"Not at all," the teacher said politely. She had a large falcon feather protruding out of a very pointy hat and a high-necked dress on with a large pendant over her throat. I tried very hard not to stare. "Professor Dumbledore sent me a message by owl mail."

"Email?" I asked, assuming a slip of the tongue.

"No," she replied sternly. "Owl. Mail." She indicated a barn owl with a sweep of her large, bell-sleeve.

"Oh my!" I exclaimed, ducking, expecting the large animal to take flight at any moment and swoop down dragging sharp, mouse-filled claws across my hair. The entire classroom stared. I straightened up slowly. Apparently this was a tamed variety of the almost entirely-wild species.

"I…" I glanced at Draco, and he was staring at the ceiling in utmost humiliation. "I thought I saw a spider," I finished lamely. A lanky red haired boy near my elbow flinched, but a girl with hair that had clearly never heard of conditioner shushed him. I pitied her, and thought of giving her the name of a great stylist I had found. She wasn't completely unfortunate, but it was a lot of raw potential. Really, really raw.

The teacher was looking at me as though I was the most confusing thing she had seen in her entire fifty years.

"I am Professor McGonagall," she said, shaking the confusion finally. "And this isn't an excuse to stop practicing," she continued, raising her voice to the class. "You can sit here, Miss Cole, between Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley" She pointed to a seat next to the red head and Harry.

"But can't I…" I trailed off, looking towards the opposite side of the room where Draco had settled himself. Mrs. McGonagall gave me a stern look. I decided not to question her. Apparently she wanted me adjacent to her desk where she could watch me.

I sat down slowly, and I saw that all the students around me were pulling rabbits out from underneath the table.

"Oh, are you going to make them disappear?" I asked excitedly. The red haired boy gave me a look of panic and confusion. "I did that once at magic camp. Don't you just hide them like this—" I began gesturing, quite competently I might say, how to disappear a rabbit into a hat, sans rabbit, sans hat, and sans handkerchief (so I may have looked a bit odd – but let's be real, these people thought they were witches), and the little red haired boy flinched as though I were a barn owl in a classroom. Or at least, his equivalent of how I saw that oddity.

"Ron," the girl with the afro intoned, as though he were a small child and she his nanny. "Sorry about him, he isn't used to talking with non-Magic people like you. He stared at my parents in the same way. You guys just aren't a part of his world," she replied condescendingly, although I'm sure she meant it to sound as friendly. "Stop acting like she's something out of a zoo, Ron," she ordered without even looking at him. The red haired boy flinched subserviently. I could see who wore the pants in this relationship. What a bossy little trollop. Who couldn't use conditioner. I wasn't sure if I wanted to help her anymore. I attempted a polite smile, the one I give people I secretly hate, but it's my prettiest smile so I think she took it and continued working, probably really jealous of my awesome hair. Hmph.

"Really, Ronald," she continued, still complaining harshly. Now I really disliked her. The boy had barely moved. "What is wrong with you?"

"Martin Miggs," he replied, his voice all trembly and frightened.

"Who?" snapped the girl.

"Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle!" his voice was hoarse. He had obviously heard horror stories of "people like me," as the bushy haired girl had called us normal folk.

"I'm not mad, I promise," I replied, smiling as brightly as I could at him just to piss off his little girlfriend. I even tried fluffing my hair, a trick that some girls use – although they usually have had access to feminine-scented shampoo... Despite the man-musk that may have engulfed the two of his, his expression cleared somewhat, and his ears turned a little pink. He started waving that stick around over the rabbit. The girl grabbed his hand to reclaim his attention and started correct his flourishes. So annoying, so possessive. But I wasn't going to mess with that travesty of a relationship. To my left, Harry was waving his tree branch around over the rabbit.

"Having any luck, Potter?" came a sneering voice. Draco was lingering overhead, under the pretense of getting a spare rabbit from Mrs. McGonagall's desk, where a hutch was hiding five or so terrified bunnies that were cowering in the furthest corner.

"Obviously not, Malfoy," retorted Harry. He sounded like he thought he was pretty tough, but it was clear that Draco had the upper hand – he was just that much more attractive.

"Are you going to disappear a rabbit too, Draco?" I asked, glancing up at him, trying to keep that bubble-gum-hero-worshiping-flirty tone out of my voice.

"No," Draco replied, looking confused again, his voice dropping that abrasive tone as he turned to stare at me as though I were the stupidest person on planet Earth. "This is Transfiguration class," he reminded me as though it was the most apparent thing ever.

Suddenly, Harry's bunny began to wobble a bit, and when it stilled I saw there was a little brown, round jewelry box.

"Wha—" I gasped.

"Transfiguration," Harry explained gently. "It's pretty complex magic, but I turned the rabbit into a jewelry box using—"

"You've killed it!" I gasped. Both boys stared, and then I watched the color drain out of Harry's face. He looked utterly aghast.

"No, of course not," he replied, picking up the box. "I just—"

"Turned it into a box!" I replied, somehow unable to get any breath. "Turned a living, breathing, sentient creature into a… a piece of wood!"

Draco snicked.

"She has a point, Potter," he replied, beaming at me as though I was some prize-winning pumpkin plant at a town fair. "I guess they should call you the Chosen Rabbit Murderer." He guffawed as though this were extremely clever of him.

"I haven't killed it," Harry continued, ignoring Draco, clearly panicking at this point. "Professor, please explain to her that I haven't killed it."

"But he has!" I replied, turning to the teacher. "It used to be a perfectly happy, hopping little bunny rabbit and now – now it's a box!"

"What do you mean, Miss Cole?" she asked, standing up from behind her desk and regarding me sternly over her glasses, feather bobbing as she moved.

"Is this a special box? Is this box different from a box I would buy at a jewelry store?" I sounded lucid and persuasive (albeit a tad upset), a talent that had many a debate team member knocking down my door, but the teacher was staring at me as though I were insane.

However, as always, she remained calm. She walked over. She picked up the box. She opened it – at this point I felt quite faint – and inspected it thoroughly.

"No, Mr. Potter was quite successful in his Transfiguration. This is a box, a normal box."

She thunked it down on the table.

"And it can't feel that?" I asked.

"No, not at all."

"So what about that rabbit?"

"It's a box." She was talking very slowly as if I simply couldn't hear her properly.

"No, it's a rabbit."

"Box." She drew the single sound out, as though this would suddenly help me to understand.

"It's a rabbit!" I exclaimed. "It was born a rabbit, it lived a rabbit, it hopped around being all rabbit-y, and now it's been killed and its cells and its atoms or whatever have all been switched around to make it into a wooden jewelry box!"

"Please calm down, Miss Cole," the teacher replied.

"But you're all murdering rabbits for no good reason and calling Transmogrification—"

"Transfiguration," she interrupted patiently.

"Whatever!" I snapped, drawing a breath to continue.

The teacher tapped her stick on the box. But by the time the baton came down, it was on the back of a brown rabbit. I calmed down.

"So it's back again."

"Yes."

"It wasn't dead."

"No." She was still calm. I felt like a complete idiot. The entire class was silent, as though they had been listening to my little temper-tantrum.  
"So then…" I began hesitantly, feeling embarrassed yet again. At least this time I had all my clothing on. "This is all just…"

"Magic," interrupted Draco evilly, a little flourish of a two-syllable word. He spread out the fingers of his spare hand as in a final ta-daa motion meant to inspire awe.

"Oh, alright." I replied calmly.

"'Alright'?" he mocked in that little falsetto. I punched his arm again. "Ow," he complained, rubbing the hard muscle that had probably done my knuckles more harm than vice versa by the way he was smirking. He picked up a rabbit and decisively marched away. I realized that before he reached his seat he was carry a bejeweled jewelry box. It took him only one try. It took Harry six. And for some reason, that made me feel enormously smug.

* * *

It took the bushy haired girl, the red haired boy, and the sticky-up-y black-haired boy about five years to pack up. I noticed this because Draco was all ready to go when the bell rang, and he had to linger in the doorway while all his classmates said their farewells. He was leaning against the frame, arms slung casually across his body to hold onto a few books easily, eyes sparkling intensely from underneath those strong eyebrows, his chiseled chin set defiantly…

So yes, it felt like five years. When we finally began walking, he fell into step with us.

"She's our responsibility, Malfoy," sneered the red-haired boy – Ron.  
"How do you figure that?" he asked, trying to remain unruffled. I liked him better like that – the calmer he was, the sexier. I considered telling him that. But by Harry's angry, angsty pout I decided that conversation should be left for a more appropriate, private time.

"Professor McGonagall made it clear that she was to remain with us," the girl said stubbornly, in a little I-told-you-so way that made me want to vomit in my mouth. Draco caught my disgusted look and grinned openly.

"Well perhaps Miss Cole would like to make it clear her feelings on the matter," he intoned.

I stared at him, trying to disguise the little unsettling sensation his voice saying those words gave me. I had to think for a minute to remember how to speak. Even then I couldn't think of anything to say, though.

"I mean," elaborated Draco, "what you said this morning…"

"This morning?" Ron echoed, sounding breathless, raising an orange eye brow so that it disappeared behind his shaggy bangs.

"In my bedroom…" Draco continued.

"In your bedroom?" Harry repeated, flustered, despite himself. Boys.

"As long as we don't have to go into what I was wearing," I replied, catching on quickly. That's why Draco liked me – he grinned.

"Or rather," I said, turning conspiratorially to that girl. "What I wasn't wearing, if you know what I mean." I gave my best popular-girl simper. The girl looked utterly disgusted, and repulsed by the near-drooling of her two guy friends.

"Unless you wanted to join us…?" I offered, looking her over as rudely as I could manage. Very Katy Perry. This was fun.

"Americans," I heard her growl as she dragged the two boys away.

Draco and I laughed for a good fifteen minutes.

"So?" I asked.

"So?" he echoed.

"When do I have to deal with Luke, Leia, and Han again?"

"Huh?"  
"Those Three Musketeers?" I jerked my head to indicate the group that had just left us.

He sighed, and we began walking slowly in the opposite direction. We passed courtyards, skirted a few open classrooms, and began walking down another flight of stairs.

"In Divination later today. I think Dumbledore wants to keep an eye on us, and he's using them."

The reminder of Dumbledore caught me off guard. It was something in those crystal clear blue eyes that reminded me of my epiphany, of that feeling of dangling off a cliff with Harry as my savior. It was that sick part of me that didn't want to be saved that had me alienating the girl with the bushy hair and clinging to someone I probably should not be trusting. Draco was silent – he was remarkably perceptive for someone who didn't really seem to care about my feelings. I put on my best brave-face.

"Divination?" I asked instead of bringing up a more important topic. "Are we looking for gold?"

"No." He looked confused again.

"Like… a divining rod? Y'know?"

"Obviously not," he replied, and his confused, upset expression cracked into a large grin. "You are so strange."

"Hey!" I smacked him again. "Says the witch."

"Wizard!" he corrected, pouting his lips as though I had insulted him. I gave him a coy look.

"Sorry, there are just so many strange terms to keep track of…"

"You knew that!" he accused, sounding thrilled. I shrugged, but couldn't keep from smiling. His grin softened into an intense expression that was extremely attractive while being the most frightening thing I had seen all day – the spinning, the running, the stolen clothing that belonged to some ghost… it was just all too fast. Most of all him, the way that I couldn't keep my eyes of everything about him.

"Why."

He looked at me, in that strangely-guilty look that sometimes stole across him when I was looking at him.

"Why me." It didn't sound like I was talking to him, but by hunching body language it was clear that he understood what I was getting at.

He still didn't answer.

"Why you." I hoped he didn't hear that part. I was glancing him over now, trying to stare through those gray eyes. Finally it just became too intense, too intense for only having known him for a few hours.

"This is crazy," I finally muttered.

"Tell me about it."

I couldn't ask him, couldn't ask if he felt that strange jitteriness too. It was hard to say how long we stood staring at each other, as much as I hate to admit it. How strange and clichéd. Was this Stockholm Syndrome?

The bell rang.

"Divination?" I offered tentatively.

"Yeah," he muttered, turning and walking away. I followed miserably in his shadow, unable to look at him either.


	4. The PoodleHaired Lady

Hurrying off to Divination made me feel that unwelcome twinging of an outsider again. I was trailing in Draco's shadow – he looked something of a defeated superhero, his outer-coat-robe billowing behind him romantically as he strode powerfully off the corridors, head bent downwards in meditation. There were all those students, fresh out of some collegiate utopia, chattering and carrying books with feather quills tucked behind their ears. And I was out of sync, out of step.

Suddenly Draco turned. I think all this wheeling around was so dramatic owing to the billowing clothing all these people wore, but it was extremely confusing at that point when I was so unaccustomed to the wizarding robes. He looked as though he just discovered something extremely important.

"Yes…?" I prompted at his chiseled, man-of-action expression. He pointed at me, made to say something, and then thought otherwise. Instead, he reached out and led me into a courtyard. At this point, the second bell was echoing through the open stone pathways that surrounded us, so there were no students remaining. In fact, the whole square garden area was deserted, and Draco sat me down on a bench.

"As much as I enjoy having you drag me places and poof me places and divine me places, I really think we have reached the point in our relationship where you start explaining these things to me beforehand."

I couldn't keep that biting sarcasm out of my voice, but my semi-angry words fell on his back as he paced in front of me. I sat down on the stone bench he had led me to. Suddenly, he was kneeling so that he was directly in my eye line.

"You…" he began slowly. "You had never seen magic before and when you finally saw it, your first thought was about a bunnyrabbit?"

I considered this for a moment.

"Huh."

"Huh?" he repeated, sounding extremely frustrated. "There's no denial, no refusal to believe."

"Eh."

"Eh?"

"I dunno."

He was staring at me, staring at me intensely. I would have spent all day staring into those silvery eyes, but:

"Aren't we late for class?" I asked tentatively.

"Professor Trelawney's an utter idiot," he dismissed me easily.

"That's nice."

"You're avoiding my question."

"Why does it matter?" I knew why it mattered. I just wanted to know why it mattered _to him_.

"You just don't make any sense." That intrigue again, that interest in me as a case study, as a specimen, as a lab experiment, not as a girl sitting there desperately trying to make her profile feminine in a pair of really uncomfortable pumps.

I drew a breath to avoid again, to make up some stupid reason, but there was a serious quality in his expression that I hadn't seen. Maybe I wasn't just an experiment.

"I guess it's easy," I began, speaking slowly, my thoughts falling into place with my words, "to accept the existence of… something more… because maybe that's what we all want."

"We all want magic." He repeated dumbly, staring at the grass as though he were Whitman.

"Not exactly," I allowed, walking around the courtyard, trying to be interesting, introspective, and extremely seductive at the same time. "We just… want to believe that great things can happen."

He was staring at me, still kneeling, so that his eyes fell naturally about the flouncing line of my skirt, tracing my hips.

"I get that," he replied, seriousness gone, traded for flirtation. He stood up and strode over. I smiled nervously. I didn't want this, now that he was coming towards me, now that I had lured him over. It was too strange, too fast, too –

"But you're a Muggle," his serious voice intoned, eye brows contracting in a scowl again. I was having trouble keeping up with his mood swings, until I realized I must be like that too – all my flirting, then my arms crossing subconsciously, my lack of clothing and little comments and then my clinging to Harry as though he were some hero in a teen book series. Draco was looking at me, seeking approbation.

"Apparently." I thought for a second. "Is that a problem?"

"What makes you think that it would be?" he asked, too quickly. That interest again, in my intuitive leaps. Validating my guess yet again.

"You keep harking on that Muddleness."

"Muggle," he corrected.

"Whatever. So it made me think that it might be a problem, consistent with your interest."

"Yes, it's a problem."

I could tell he wasn't going to elaborate.

"Divination?" I offered, holding out my arm like a noble lady. He sneered at it, attractive derision, and hooked elbows with me instead.

* * *

By the time we reached the top of the tower, I hated Dumbledore. He knew where I was going – why did he have to give me high-heels? Draco seemed half-amused and half-frustrated by my snail pace, and stopped several times to glare at me with that insanely, terrifyingly-attractive expression that snuck onto his face more and more often. When we reached the top of the tower, I realized that there wasn't anything there. The stairs just ended.

"Ladies first," Draco murmured evilly, pulling open and trapdoor and unrolling a ladder.

"You're kidding me," I sighed. He smiled and shook his head. "Really?" I asked.

"Really," he replied.

"But don't you guys like have magic and everything?" I asked, clinging to the first rungs of the ladder.

"Yeah, so?" He was standing directly beneath me as I struggled. And I was wearing a skirt.

"Hold this ladder, will you?" I whined, fighting to remain upright. He chuckled and moved to brace me with scary strength.

"What were you saying?"

"All this just doesn't seem necessary," I huffed. "Why not just poof yourself places? Or why even take classes? Why not just magically learn everything? Like download the information?"

I had reached the top of the ladder and we slowly pulling myself upward. I wasn't sure if Draco had an answer, but as I was slithering across the floor in a desperate attempt to not fall back down the ladder, I realized that I was in the middle of a silent classroom, and every student had swiveled in his chair to stare at me.

I hastily crawled and lurched forward so that I was standing up. A lady that looked like she had ended up at a dog groomer's instead of a hair salon was staring at me out of the thickest glasses I had ever seen. Why glasses? I wondered to myself. Hadn't wizards invented lasik yet? But I kept silent – all those eyes on me. I tugged at my skirt so that it covered as much of my legs as possible.

"Hi," I muttered. "Sorry to interrupt…"

"It is just as I foresaw, my dear," came the somewhat-warbly voice of the Poodle-Haired Lady.

"You see the future?" I asked. I heard Draco snort behind me – apparently in the time it took me to humiliate myself in front of the entire class, he had competently scaled the tower ladder.

"I have the inner eye," Poodle Lady intoned dramatically. "I can see your future, my dear… you… you have lost something!" She sounded excited by her declaration, as though she made it up on the spot and liked the way it sounded.

I nodded. Compared to all the crazy people here who believed they were witches or wizards and even including me, the girl who couldn't remember where her pajama bottoms went, this lady was off-the-charts insane. I was sort of proud of her, for being so crazy – but mostly I just felt bad for her.

"Would you like to learn how to see into the future?" she asked in a stage whisper, spreading her arms out uncertainly.

"She's a Muggle," Draco retorted as though that ended the conversation decisively, guiding me over to a little tea-table. There was a piece of incense on it, and I noticed other tables had the same – in front of the Poodle Lady there was a lit piece, trailing smoke.

I pulled out a little stool and carefully sat down, making sure to remain as modest as possible as all eyes were trained on me.

"Ah!" I heard a little whisper exclaim. Poodle Lady had snuck up behind me, and had placed a shaky hand on my shoulder, gripping it firmly. "Even Muggles can sometimes possess The Sight."

Apparently I had to say something to this – her bizarrely-magnified eyes were fixed on me with somewhat pathetic hope.

"That's cool," I offered unenthusiastically. Draco smothered another chuckle.

The Poodle Lady touched a stick she drew out of no where and touched it to the incense; it began twirling a little stream of smoke upwards.

"Just – tell me what you see," she said excitedly. I glanced at Draco in confusion, but he was shaking his head in a little _see, she's crazy_ way. So I turned back to the smoke.

"I see…"

To be honest, I saw a line of smoke. Was this the sort of thing where you had to unfocus your eyes? I tried that, but it only gave me a headache. Then I tried really focusing my eyes. This only showed the entire class watching me intensely. Apparently I had to make something up. I watched the smoke curl.

"I see… a rope," I said, trying to take on that dreamy tone that Miss Cleo uses.

"Good, good," the Poodle Lady muttered, gripping my shoulder tighter.

"And… a flower."

"What flower?" asked the lady. Was she kidding? I was staring at incense. I put a finger to my temple and rubbed it, the way those fraud psychics do when they get a vision.

"I… can't tell," I finished lamely, losing that dreamy tone in my impatience. The Poodle Lady released my shoulder, finally.

"Broaden your mind," she whispered conspiratorially, then turned to the class and began muttering about incense and how to light it.

"A flower?" mocked Draco.

I sneered at him.

"What do you see?" I retorted, embarrassed. He stared at the smoke for a long time. He lifted a hand and ran it through the stream several times, and I watched in surprise as it resolved itself into a small spherical shape, that spun several times.

"Is that a skull?" I asked, horrified. At the word "skull" the Poodle Lady whirled excitedly. Draco ran his hands through the smoke hurriedly and muttered something about there not being a skull. But I knew what I saw – a skull, with something coming out of its mouth and twisting its way around the air. But maybe it was just all the fumes making me see things.

When the class was over, the I-told-you-so girl approached us.

"We're taking her to lunch," she told Draco matter-of-factly. He had been resting his head on his hands, and was startled by her bossy tone. He seemed too distracted by something else to argue much.

"C'mon," the girl ordered me. I stood slowly, glancing at Draco for his input, but he nodded slightly and resumed his brooding. Apparently something was bothering him, or maybe I was over-analyzing it and all the smoke was just giving him a headache.

I followed the girl ungracefully down the rope ladder, flanked by both Ron and Harry.

"I'm Hermione," she said, striding off purposefully down the stairs.

"I'm Vera," I replied.

"I know," Hermione said stiffly. "And I know we didn't get off to the best start, but Dumbledore thinks it's important that you get to know your options."

"Options?" I repeated.

Hermione looked at me, a measuring glance. She opened her mouth, but then reconsidered. It was clear that answering my question wasn't something she was willing to do quite yet.

"Can you slow down," I heard Ron behind me whine. So she was upset – this girl-on-a-mission walking wasn't normal for her.

"No," barked Hermione.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry. He was the sensitive one, apparently.

"I hate the way Malfoy's just… trying to assert his ownership over her."

And I hated the way she was talking about me like I wasn't there.

"Who says it isn't mutual?" I asked, bristling.

Hermione wheeled on me, stopping right in front of me. I almost ran into her, but stopped short, my toes pinched in the high-heels.

"You don't understand the variables," she informed me harshly. "And you don't understand the magic involved."

"But you don't either," whined Ron. "If so can we please just go to lunch?"

"Aren't we?" I asked, turning to him.

"No, we're going to the library," Hermione retorted angrily.

"Why?" Ron moaned.

"We need to figure out what Malfoy did to her!" Hermione replied.

"Who says he did anything?" I interjected.

Hermione blinked slowly, looking down as though gathering her thoughts.

"Don't you think it's a bit weird," she asked me, "that you already feel so possessive about him? That you're willing to let him make up your mind about us, about anything, that you trust him so completely?"

It was now my turn to be unable to meet her eyes; I glanced at the walls and hugged myself, feeling cold and exposed in the ghost-clothes I was wearing. A nervous, panicky energy was building up inside of me, pure electricity that made me want to pull off those heels and run down the corridor away from it all. To burn off that feeling, I began tapping my toe, fluffing my hair, little movements to give outlet to my sudden fear.

"We can help you," Hermione promised firmly, and I realized that she was being sincere.

"It's your choice," Harry offered kindly.

"Why would she choose Malfoy?" interrupted Ron, making a little disgusted face as though Malfoy was some sort of slug.

"Ron," muttered Hermione angrily.

I was still tapping my toe, staring at the stone wall.

"We'll be in the library when you're ready," Hermione offered, and she turned to go. The boys followed.

I watched them for a minute, and then I felt my legs begin to pace after them without my brain consciously making the decision. In some sick way, it just felt right to trust them.


	5. The Know It All Queen

Bossy girl was standing at a table ordering around Harry and Ron. They scurried around subserviently, pulling manuscripts down from the walls. Harry seemed to be genuinely looking, searching indices and tables of contents. Ron looked in pain (probably hungry, I reminded myself, from the lunch hour he was missing) and was opening books at random, commenting aloud to his friends the facts he was stumbling upon. And Hermione, the know-it-all queen, was hovering over both of them, and apparently rejecting each book. I watched them for a moment. The turning to get books; the comment of something possible; Hermione shaking her head angrily… and the cycle would begin again.

I approached them and stood tentatively over Harry's shoulder, looking at the book he was reading about archaic summoning spells.

"You aren't going to be any help just standing there," the Know-It-All Queen snapped without looking up. "No, Ronald," she continued in the same breath. "Floo Powder has nothing to do with this."

The red haired boy slumped dejectedly off, and I swear I heard his stomach growl.

"Me, help?" I repeated cautiously, trying to keep the words from sounding sarcastic.

"We're trying to find what spell Malfoy used to bring you here so we can reverse it."

"That anxious to get rid of me, are you?" I retorted, plopping down in the chair next to Harry. He turned to look at me, his green eyes surprisingly keen.

"Of course not," he replied. "Malfoy's just… done something to you."

"And it clearly isn't right," Hermione interrupted harshly.

"Who says you can be the judge of that?" I snapped.

The Know-It-All Queen stared at me coolly for a second, and then stood very slowly. I rolled my eyes at her.

"You're doing this wrong," I said, trying to keep the nasty note out of my voice.

"I think we know what we're doing a little more than you," the evil queen snapped. I glared at her.

I saw Harry turn his head to her – apparently he gave her some look, because she whirled angrily and stomped deeper into the library in the same direction that Ron had gone.

"If you think that you can help another way, feel free," Harry murmured once she was out of earshot.

"Gee thanks," I sarcastically replied. He gave me a confused look, as though I wasn't being completely grateful for his wonderful bequest. "It's not like this is _about me_ or anything…"

I rose angrily, rubbing my arms to keep them warm. I didn't feel quite cold, just a sort of uneasy feeling that crept along my bare skin. And I think Harry understood that I was being snarky just to hide those feelings – he gave me a kind look, one that said that he would be there for me, and then turned back to his reading.

I slowly made my way through the maze-like library to the front desk.

"Hi," I whispered quietly to the librarian. She turned angrily at the noise, but then realized I was talking to her, and her somewhat predatory birdlike face softened. "I was wondering if you could help me find some information."

"Books are organized by the number system set down by Merlin," she said sternly. "It's very straightforward, of course, except the volumes on transfiguration, which Merlin considered one of the charms arts…" She trailed off, pointing in the far corner of the library.

"Actually," I whispered back, trying to sound friendly, "I was hoping you could give me some more specific information that can't be found in a book."

"All information can be found in a book," she replied, drawing herself up angrily.

"Well," I said quickly, "I was actually looking for a specific book and I'm not quite sure the title. You see, my boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, said that he found a wonderful book here, and I'm wondering if you could tell me the title. He said that he returned it earlier today."

It was a gamble, assuming he returned it, but it was worth it. More than that, it was a gamble assuming that she would believe my lie, that witches and wizards couldn't see through a falsehood as easily as they could transfigure rabbits out of hats. But apparently, the clear devotion in my voice as I slowly spoke his name removed any doubt; she sniffed through her beak-like nose, but did not ask any more questions.

Instead, the librarian hawk lady opened a small journal that had been hidden somewhere in her robes and glanced down the row suspiciously. I peeked over her shoulder and noticed that the list was updating currently, new lines being added in ink as though someone was constantly writing in it.

"Killinger's Curses, volume three," she replied haughtily. "It's not the most up-to-date Defense Against the Dark Arts book, but I find it's passable."

"May I?" I asked gently. She glared at me, raised a wand, and was suddenly handing me an old volume.

It took me less than five minutes to find the correct entry, and then after that, less than sixty seconds to read through it. It was like a sudden cold breeze. That shiveriness again, wrapping my arms around my body, hugging myself. A twitchiness that originated in my core and seemed to seep out through my shaking fingers.

I rushed towards the windows, towards the outlet, where I could forget what I had just read. As I reached the source of hazy green light, I found a door. A few moments later and I was standing on the balcony, trying to feel the whipping, cold air across my face that was stinging my cheeks. But somehow, it just didn't feel real – it felt remote, detached, like I was somebody else hearing about my own self.

I had been holding the book, but I had dropped it. It fell behind me, still open to that same page. I couldn't bring myself to turn.

There was a slight whooshing noise that made me turn, and I saw what looked like a large green bird swoop onto the balcony. I didn't have time to duck, and even if I had, I wouldn't have been able to. My body was numb and immobile, like it had become stone on that cold patio.

It took me a few moments to focus on the object and discover that it wasn't some gigantic, green hawk, but rather Draco Malfoy wearing green robes. I surveyed him coldly from below my drawn eyebrows.

"Having fun with Potty and his friends?" he athe sked teasingly.

"Less than," I allowed, my tone chilly. Somehow, though, I felt the muscles of my scowl slacken, as though his mere presence usurped my brain in its important circuit, as though he, instead, sent the electrical pulses throughout my body to control me like a puppet. And somehow that didn't terrifying me at all. It was the sudden realization that I wasn't scared, though, that sent the warning alarms off in the back of my head.

"Care for an escape?"  
I realized now that he was astride a broomstick. At least, this instrument vaguely resembled one – it had a handle, made of shiny, smooth wood, and a bristly end that poked out of the back of Draco's robes as though some obscene tail. But it was clear that his broom had never actually swept a floor – the sticks at the end were smooth and looked more like a freshly-bought paintbrush than an instrument used by janitors. There was something strangely beautiful about it. Maybe it was just because it seemed like it was one with Draco, but there was something elegant and graceful about it as well.

He was holding out a hand, and I couldn't help but accept. It was that gravity, something tangible that was tugging me firmly towards him, never slackening. A sort of sick need, forcing my eyes to lock on him until everything else around fell out of focus.

He guided me so that I was standing in front of him, and I gingerly sat down on the broom as he was. I was pleasantly surprised – it didn't feel like a broom at all, but rather like a bicycle seat. In fact, I could almost feel the contours of a sort of squishy material that was holding me on the broom comfortably.

Draco reached around me so that his hands met the handle (I can only assume that's how they steered). We waddled somewhat awkwardly to the edge of the balcony and paused.

"Are you ready?" he asked. I turned to look at him, craning my neck. His face was alight, as though adrenalin was lighting his veins on fire.

"You didn't read the fine print, did you?" I asked quietly. The thrill-happy look left his face; his smile drooped somewhat.

"Hold on tight" was all he said, and he turned the handle of the broomstick downwards.

And suddenly we were falling.

It was as though I had left my lungs somewhere behind me, or the fall was forcing all the air out of my lungs. I could feel my hair being ripped around in the wind, and I could feel my mouth open to scream, but the air just wasn't there. I closed my eyes and pushed myself backwards into his strong chest, my hands somehow finding his and gripping tightly.

And my feet were touching something, gently. I peeked open my eyes. Grass. My toes were running through long blades of grass. My heart suddenly caught up with me, pounding quickly to make up for all the lost beats. I could suddenly breathe once more, and my lungs pushed out the air in slightly hysterical gasps. After a few moments I realized I was laughing.

He was too, except his chuckles had air behind them, and his silvery eyes were gleaming contentedly, powerfully.

"That was fun," he murmured. I realized that he was somehow holding me hand. I felt slap-happy, giggling crazily, a rush of adrenalin startling me into giddiness. His warm fingers were carefully intertwined in mine. I realized now that I was freezing, dressed so scantily. He was so warm, with layers of green robes that cushioned me invitingly as I snuggled backwards into his somewhat awkward, accidental embrace. His warm hand tightened about my freezing fingers.

I quickly jerked my hand back, and he sobered, remembering my comment.

One look from me and he knew I wouldn't drop it; instead, he slowly lifted the handle of the broom so that we were zooming back towards the school. We wove through towers and over battlements. This was a gentler, slower ride, where the wind buffeted me with the intensity of a convertible car ride and not a wind tunnel. It was almost enjoyable, or could have been had I not had that nagging sense of something wrong tugging at the back of my mind.

When the broom stopped, we were standing on some almost-flat roof. I staggered stiffly off the broom. He slid off competently, and turned to face the mirroring surface of the dark water below.

"The Black Lake," he pointed out sadly. Somehow this made his inner arm hurt again; he rubbed it, as before, looking down as though ashamed.

I sat down, trying to remain silent so he would explain.

"No," he finally said, sitting beside me, still staring off at the steely surface of the lake. "I didn't read the fine print until I had already… and then you were already…"

He sighed.

"So I guess that explains it," I replied, trying not to look at him and failing miserably. It was getting worse. It was like I couldn't keep from looking at him, like his name was suddenly springing up in every thought. But even worse than the longing, the horrible need, the feeling of nausea that I felt happily every time he moved closer to me, was the sad, sick reality that my mind was chanting sadistically.

"But does it?" he asked, leaning in towards me. His face was only inches from mine. I could see every eyelash on those silvery sweet eyes. Those pink lips were parted, and I could feel the warm breath reach my face. He was leaning in slowly, almost as though that gravity-pull I had been feeling was reciprocated somehow. A slight shiver of heat snuck down my spine.

I drew away quickly.

"Please take me back," I said quickly before I could stop myself. He looked hurt, and then angry, and then almost relieved. I watched as everything I was feeling played across his face, a mirror to mine.

"Back to those idiots?" he almost snarled.

"They have answers," I gently reminded him, but that wasn't the truth. Somehow I couldn't help but be completely honest with him: "And I don't have to be afraid of what's real with them."

He seemed angry – I watched his strong fists clench and unclench – but didn't say anything.

* * *

"So this explains it." Hermione was waiting for me on the balcony as Draco angrily helped me off the broom and then soared off without saying anything more.

I glared at her. She looked positively thrilled. Harry looked at me as though legitimately concerned, and he must have noticed my wind-whipped cheeks and chattering teeth that even I hadn't noticed while I was with Draco (although they were painfully apparent now that he was gone) – he turned and we all trooped inside.

"It's a sort of summoning spell," Hermione excitedly explained as we hurried down the hall. Ron was ecstatic: we were finally headed to lunch. "Malfoy only read the title so he thought that he was summoning a family member, but he didn't read the fine print."

"Which was?" Harry prompted.

"The spell is designed to conjure a sort of… loved one, but what Malfoy didn't realize was that the spell doesn't find and bring a loved one to you, it _makes one_." The Know-It-All Queen just needed a little evil crown for her little evil epiphanies; she was making due instead with an evil little grin, a triumphant expression that made me want to punch her in the teeth.

"So you're saying…" Harry began yet again.

"I'm saying, Harry," Hermione said, wheeling to face the two of us as we strode down the hallway, "that the spell functions as a sort of _Accio_ charm while retaining all the qualities of _Amortentia!"_

Ron, hurrying a little bit faster a few paces ahead, called back, "What's that?"

"Honestly, Ronald," grouched the know-it-all, smiling at the fact that she knew everything and her stupid friends remained ignorant, "it's the most powerful love potion."

"So that's why—" Harry began, lightbulb lighting above his head, ready to bring it together finally. Hermione was having none of this, she wanted the credit and couldn't stand the idea that someone else actually had a few IQ points, so she interrupted rudely, "That's why they both care about each other so much. _Amortentia_ creates a feeling of infatuation or obsession. I've read all about it."

Hermione now turned to look at me keenly. "And it's getting worse," she announced matter-of-factly. "The spell that Malfoy used isn't quite like the potion – it acts gradually, growing rather than waning over time. And it's reciprocated evenly."

She was saying so many important things that I should have been worrying about, and the only thing that I could think was that Draco felt exactly the same way for me that I did for him. A small part of my mind was panicking, trying in vain to convince the rest of me that all this was a lie, that this wasn't real… but I was having none of it, fantasy images of Draco filtering through my consciousness with a speed that frightened the comparatively small section of my sane mind.

"Dumbledore knew," Harry murmured, more puzzle-pieces clicking into place like gears turning first slowly and then more rapidly as our footsteps sped down the corridor.

"What?" asked Ron.

"Dumbledore knew," Harry replied, now sounding awed. "He said that she could remain here as a guest. As _Malfoy's_ guest. He knew that he could be trusted."

"And," Hermione added triumphantly, "he knew it wouldn't be a problem much longer."

"What?" the rest of us chorused. The two boys sounded thrilled. I could tell that I sounded appalled.

"The spell only lasts for twenty-four hours," she stated smugly. "After that, she goes home, no more magic-impermeability, no more random displacement, no more Draco Malfoy."

I actually felt my heart stop. No more Draco Malfoy.

"I don't think you should say that to her," Harry said slowly. Everyone turned to me. I knew my face was white as a sheet, but I couldn't do anything. I could barely even breathe.

"Don't worry," Hermione said soothingly. "You don't really like him, and he doesn't really like you anyway."

What a total bitch.

* * *

Ron finally got his lunch, but my stomach felt queasy. Half of me was disgusted that I had these fake feelings, parts of me that weren't parts of me at all. The other half was panicking that I wouldn't be able to see him much longer, that Draco Malfoy would disappear. They would probably even erase my memory to keep their little magical secret. And a third half of me that should not even exist and was just crowding the already-full corners of my mind was just confused about being confused about feelings and not trusting any thought that ran through my extremely-crowded skull.

"That's why you were able to accept all this magic stuff so easily," Hermione explained, more thrilled by the minute now that all this was coming together now. "It's a part of Malfoy – a really big part – and the spell gave you a sort of… obsession with everything about him. And the same about you, and you being a Muggle. Malfoy hates Muggles, but this spell made him love everything about you!"  
She smiled triumphantly, as though she had just solved a Rubik's cube. That's all I was to her. Some puzzle. Some mystery.

"Get up." I didn't have to be told twice, and I most certainly didn't need to turn to see who owned that velvety, sultry, snarling voice.

"You don't own her, Malfoy," snapped Hermione. I couldn't see her face because my body had turned without any command to face him. But I could imagine her stalwart expression, that little pout she made when she was right.

"Actually," he smiled with overly, falsely saccharine sweetness, "I do own her. At least for another thirteen and a half hours."

His arm was somehow around my waist, leading me away from Harry's table towards his own. We looped around the long banquet tables in silence, and our lips remained sealed as he waited politely for me to sit first.

"You're hungry," he told me, and suddenly I was. Without breakfast, and with the time change (with all these British accents, I realized vaguely, I must be out of the United States, thus that feeling of over-sleeping that morning), I found myself ravenous. Draco began kindly heaping my plate with roast chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans that had appeared somewhere in golden tureens and golden platters and golden dishes. I lifted my golden fork and knife and gingerly began eating, fearing gold flecks in my food.

We were silent as we ate, but that wasn't a good enough excuse.

"Thirteen and a half hours?" I asked gingerly. A part of my mind was embarrassed by the tremor in my voice, by the way that my eyes were prickling with tears, and suddenly his hand was underneath my chin, smoothing my hair back from my neck comfortingly.

It took us a moment to regain our sanity, and both of us drew back hurriedly.

"We can't go on like this," I muttered, pushing away my half-eaten meal.

"Wait," Draco said, grabbing my hand to keep me there – as though I could have possibly willed myself to leave his side at this point. Dangerous, very dangerous. I glanced up at him slowly, and I saw him lose his train of thought for a moment, then regain it.

"Do you remember what you thought when you first saw me?" he asked. I groaned. Was this what we sounded like? A bad soap opera? A teen vampire novel? Usually our little moments of infatuation synced up, the way Hermione described it as equal reciprocation, but now I was confidently not-obsessed, a fact I could clearly state by the way I could keep my eyes off of him.

"No, I don't mean that," Draco continued, catching on to my scorn. "I mean, before the spell kicked in."

"How do we even know if the spell is working?" I asked, pursing my lips angrily. He glared at me.

"Please just try to not be so rational for once," he begged, rolling his eyes very attractively at me.

"Fine. I thought… that you were really annoying." I smiled, fondly recalling the tapping. Oh goodness, I was reminiscing on something that had happened that morning.

"Is that all?" Draco sounded disappointed, breaking the overly-romantic dialogue.

"And you just thought I was something that would get you expelled," I pointed out, trying to delicately eat my green beans despite the sudden complains from my starving stomach.

His brows drew together quickly.

"No I didn't," he bluntly remarked, confused by my incorrect intuition.

"But you were so mad, especially when I thought you were crazy, and the way you were glaring at me lying on your bed…"

I broke off, suddenly realizing what I was saying.

"You thought I was hot!" I laughed, punching him again playfully.

"Not anymore," he lamented jokingly, unable to keep a wry smile off his beautiful face. "You keep hitting me."

We both broke off for a moment in confusion, where I pushed the remainder of my food around with golden utensils.

"Maybe…" began Draco, his silvery eyes softening.

"No," I quickly interjected, shuddering at the thought - a thought that I was able to guess with surprising speed. "A relationship has to exist on trust."

"Fine then, let's be rational," he replied, a frustrated edge creeping into his voice.

"Alright," I agreed happily. "Assumption 1: We can't trust ourselves and therefore cannot trust each other."

"Assumption 2," countered Draco quickly, "we cannot trust anything for another thirteen hours and therefore comparatively we can trust ourselves and each other just as much as we can trust any scientifically proven fact." I glared at him; he was smirking attractively. And he was right.

"Fine then," I snapped. "Assumption 3: We cannot make any judgments as all our feelings are compromised and must therefore trust ourselves to our friends."

"Thus, Assumption 4," Draco grinned, "we can only trust each others' judgments as only we can understand our predicament."

"So what's your solution," I interrupted angrily, forsaking our little epistemological debate-gone-flirtation.

"Why fight it," he murmured, leaning in towards me, closing the scant space between us, the way that a loud part of my mind had been shouting for me to do this entire conversation.

"That's absurd," I tried to laugh it off, tried to keep the lie out of my voice. It was like he was emanating waves of heat that brushed down my spine and made me shiver happily. I could see how it would all play out, feel his sheets across my bare knees, smell the musky scent of his cologne. He was leaning in towards me, in all likelihood imagining the same scene.

A part of my mind was yelling that this wasn't real, that he wasn't real, that what made my heart race and stutter was just some sort of magicked lie. But as he leaned in still closer, his very proximity crushed that complaining voice in my mind, and for once my mind was silent and clear as I gave in to the my senses – the heat he radiated, the smell of his soap, the perfect planes of his face. Every inch of my skin seemed to sparkle with feeling as he leaned in closer, still closer, as though waiting for contact. My eyelids slowly fluttered shut, my mind still and calm and without words, filled instead with an electric energy that soared along my skin. The world shrunk. Only we existed.


	6. Me, The Genius

Suddenly I was flying backwards, and after a stuttering second of shock, I felt the black and blue force of a wall impacting my back. Disoriented, I glanced up, right into the angry face of a girl who looked as though she had also been thrown into a stone wall – except face first. In fact, her little turned-up nose looked somewhat squashed, not those ski-lift noses that celebrities have. The round jaw that made her face a perfect circle was framed by a choppy haircut, a lot like Snape's, except more awkward on her round face. Her eyes were perfectly spherical, even as she was scowling ferociously. I half expected a dog's growl to force its way through her uneven teeth.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked, and I was surprised by how high-pitched and prissy her voice sounded.

I looked at Draco in confusion. He was standing slowly, and I was surprised to see a blush on his pale complexion.

"Leave her alone, Pansy."

The Dog Faced Girl huffed a little, and wheeled on him.

"Dray-co," she purred, "don't tell me that you're choosing her over _me_."

"For another thirteen hours, I am," he told her, striding over. As he walked towards me, the embarrassed aura vanished, as though that close to me, I was worth all this humiliation. I smiled evilly. Dog Faced Girl made a pouty face and slid into a seat, clearly used to being second-best.

"Are you really choosing her, Draco?" came a sultry British voice. If Draco hadn't existed, this would have easily been the most attractive boy at the school. He was Draco's polar opposite, his dark skin and smooth black hair just as attractive as Draco's ice prince appearance. Draco stared him down, apparently ignorant of his obvious beauty – and I say obvious because everyone knew it, especially him.

"Yes, Blaise," he replied. "Do you have a problem with it?"

"She's a Muggle," Blaise laughed.

"Yeah, so?" snarled Draco. Blaise looked surprised, and then angry. He whipped the wooden stick that all these wizards seemed to love so much from somewhere and started waving it around.

"Mister Zabini," an oily, sultry voice intoned. The Man in the Dress – Snape – slithered over, geisha-like, in his long robes. The black British boy's attractive face twisted into an equally attractive scowl.

"Yes Professor?" he inquired, his voice rough.

"I trust there's no problem here," Snape murmured.

"Of course not, Professor." He slid the wooden stick back into his pants pocket. (I tried to find a way to say that but everything sounded dirty so I decided to just embrace the pre-pubescent boy in me...)

"Miss Cole, Mister Malfoy, please come with me," Snape murmured, whisking around dramatically. I was never going to get used to this ducklings way of walking around, but I guess that was how wizards did it.

We traveled up a few staircases (was it me, or were they moving? Or was my head just spinning from being so near to Draco?), down a hall or two, and suddenly we were in a long, windowed room. There were all these white hospital beds, iron frames and all, lining both sides of the room. It looked like something out of a World War I era movie, except it was surprisingly peaceful. And the paintings were moving.

"They're paintings!" I exclaimed joyfully, finally understanding what the "screens" were – the brushstrokes were startlingly obvious once I accepted all that. Draco gave me that look again, the one that made me feel like an idiot, and the Man in the Dress flipped his hair a little in a very aggravated way.

Sitting on one of the hospital beds was the trio, flanking each other with numbers if not with sexiness. At the foot of the bed stood Dumbledore, sans cart-wheeling shot glass, and a lady in a nurse's outfit. For a moment we all stood there, and the awkwardness was almost tangible in the air.

"So, Miss Vera, how has your stay at Hogwarts been?" inquired Dumbledore gravely.

"It's been… nice," I hesitantly responded, my eyes tracing Draco's furious scowl.

There was an awkward silence. I was almost choking on the animosity in the room.

"So what's all this about?" I asked quietly, to stop the angry stares the boys were exchanging, indicating the assembled forces.

"Mr. Potter and his friends would like to express some qualms they have regarding your situation, Miss Cole."

I glared at the Know It All Queen. She was clearly the one with some "qualms." She saw me looking and immediately accepted my acknowledgment of her leading role, jutting her jaw out resolutely.

"I looked into the laws and I talked to Madame Pomfrey about the wizarding equivalents," she said matter-of-factly. "How old are you, Veracity?"

"Eighteen," I replied slowly, trying to figure out why she cared. She looked disappointed. Suddenly it all clicked.

"Wait," I laughed. "Are you trying to say that this relationship I have with Draco could be classified as rape?"

I chuckled to myself. No one else was laughing. Snape was glaring. At Draco's concerned expression, I sobered myself quickly, except for the errant giggle that escaped.

"Actually, yes," Hermione replied defiantly. "I read the law carefully, and it says that consent can only be given when all parties – namely, the female party – have uncompromised judgment."

Now I had to force myself to laugh. She was right - I hated to admit it, but she was right.

"We're just worried about you," Harry quickly interjected. Hermione looked upset. Apparently she wasn't worried – she just wanted to get her way. "And if you make any decisions like this."

"I don't plan on getting pregnant, if that's what you mean," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"What does this have to do with getting pregnant?" asked Ron. We all wheeled to look at him, and the scary Man in the Dress actually snorted into his billowing black sleeves. Hermione stared at him in badly-masked horror.

"Anyway," she said, collecting herself quickly, "we just think that we can… cure you of this… if we act properly. Perhaps even break the spell."

What was this, Beauty and the Beast?

"It's my spell," Draco snapped.

"Yeah, and I'm not complaining," I quickly chimed in, apparently finishing his sentence for him. The four good guys looked appalled; Snape looked vaguely impressed.

"You _can't_ complain," Hermione replied, stressing every word as though I were some disagreeable four year old.

"Why don't we just try Miss Granger's idea?" Dumbledore offered. "Madame Pomfrey agrees that it could be beneficial." She little nurse lady smiled. She was cute - this wasn't her fault. I blamed Granger.

"I don't think I'm going to like this," I muttered, staring at her face as it brightened at Dumbledore's acceptance of her little evil plan.

"You won't," she promised cheerfully.

* * *

It was a three minute walk down the stairs, a two minute jog up a different set, and then a long hallway and a moving picture away to their "Common" Room. It was like a renaissance lounge, with little tapestries of stupid lions. Why didn't the tapestries move? I was tempted to cheekily inquire, but I was too mad at Hermione to even open my mouth. I knew it was childish, but I held my lips pressed together.

Harry showed me to a squashy couch that faced a cheerfully crackling fire.

"We're going to work on our homework," he told me kindly, "but you're welcome to read any of our books if you're interested."

Hermione rolled her eyes at Harry's kindness – apparently I was some lost cause to her – and stomped off up a set of stairs.

Ron slid into a seat right next to Harry. "So really," he whispered, leaning in towards his friend, "what does it have to do with getting pregnant?"  
Harry looked severely awkwarded out, so he quickly opened a book and started writing. Ron had the decency to look bashful at this point, although he was still confused, and shuffled off upstairs.

"Does he really…" I began tentatively.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "He has a lot of siblings."

"So apparently his parents don't understand it either," I muttered derisively.

"Hey," snapped Harry, looking angry for once. "You don't know them. Don't judge the Weasleys."

I stared at him, tempted to apologize. But then I remember I was angry, and crossed my arms.

"Does Draco like the Weasleys?" I suddenly heard myself asking. I kicked off my pumps and wiggled my bare toes.

"No," snapped Harry, trying to keep his eyes on his potions book.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because _Malfoy_ likes being Pureblooded and honoring that _tradition_." Harry sounded disgusted.

"Pureblooded," I repeated, hugging my knees onto the couch, moving my toes into the thick couch cushion. "Do you mean Pureblooded wizard? Because I heard Draco mention that he didn't like people who don't come from wizarding families."

"Yeah," Harry replied. "Ron's Pureblooded too, but his family actually acknowledges Muggleborns deserve the same rights."

"Well I mean, Draco makes sense," I allowed, now trailing my fingers over the couch. "I mean, wouldn't people with more wizard in their blood be more magical?"

"No," snapped Harry, looking up, his face disgusted. "Hermione is a Muggleborn and she is smarter than any other witch or wizard in our year!"

"Or at least she thinks she is," I replied. Harry glared at me. "Draco is at least smart enough to get around Dumbledore's security – that's got to count for something."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, suddenly intense, suddenly leaning in towards me, scowl gone, face interested.

"Well, he said something about Dumbledore increasing security and a Dark Lord and then how I got here – that's why he's in trouble, right?"

Harry was staring at me evenly.

"What exactly did Dra—Malfoy – say?" he asked quickly. I glared at him.

"You think I could remember?" I haughtily asked. When I should have been saying, do you think I could forget? But somehow I knew that repeating Draco's little secret mannerisms – the rubbing the forearm, the fear of this "Dark Lord" – would be contrary to his best interests.

We lapsed into silence. Harry started writing with a quill, scratching away at the paper.

"Is that really a feather quill?" I asked. Harry nodded. "Draco said that you guys use them but I just couldn't believe it, but he told me, y'know. And I always believe what Draco says because he's the only person who has been really honest with me, because I have to be honest with him so I know that he has to be honest with me and—"

"Will you you _please_ shut up about Malfoy?" Harry snapped, his hand almost snapping the feather quill in two in his outburst of anger.

I glared at him, part of me extremely embarrassed. It was like his name was bouncing around in my head and the only way to stop the annoying ping-pong game was to say it, out loud. Draco.

Harry kept writing. Ron crept down the stairs, his ears stained a bright shade of pink, followed by two guffawing boys who looked exactly identical. By their flaming orange hair they must have been Ron's brothers – older, judging by the way they were laughing at him.

Ron slid into an empty seat next to Harry, looking absolutely miserable. Apparently he had just learned that the stork wasn't real. Or was it? Maybe in this world, sex was only an option. I giggled to myself. With people like Draco existing, the choice was an easy one.

That was a dangerous thought, and one that brought the idea of him back spiraling into my mind. Now it was a different nervous energy, like those pinpricks of energy that flared up on my skin when he had leaned in towards me. I could feel the heat of a blush creeping across my cheekbones and caressing my throat.

I tapped my fingers across the wooden arm of the chair. Draco had done that, tapped his fingers. Each nail made a satisfying click. When I had been lying in his bed, bare legs tangled in his green silky sheets. A cascade of fingers across the wood. As he had looked me over, eyes straying from his internal debate to my perfect body…

I quickly shifted in my seat, putting my bare feet back on the ground. My fingers, now spasming at a super-human speed, were earning me glares from the other people in the lounge, so I deliberately curled my fingers around my elbows to stop the somewhat involuntary twitching.

Harry had said I could read a book. _Quiddich Through the Ages_ was propped up against his arm rest. I jerkily grabbed it. The Golden Snitch. I stared at it, flipped through. Broomsticks. Draco had a broomstick, I recalled. By the drawings, it was a Nimbus 2001, one of the best models. Draco would be selective about what he rode.

I practically threw the book into the fire.

"What is wrong with you?" Ron harshly asked, springing up to reclaim his beloved book. He practically stroked the cover.

"Nothing, I'm not crazy," I snapped irritably. "Although I though Draco was crazy," I remember quickly, laughing at the memory, "when he started talking about being a wizard and then this one time he was telling me about—"

Hermione had come down the stairs and was staring at me in blatant horror.

"This isn't working," Harry interrupting my gushing rant on Draco's wonderfulness. "She can't stop talking about him."

"Yes I can," I muttered quickly, trying to keep back a blush. Harry gave me a look that quickly told me that no one bought my lie, and then turned back to Hermione.

"Any other clever ideas?" he asked archly.

"Immersion therapy?" Hermione offered.

"No way," I replied, "It is _way_ too cold out there for swimming in that lovely Black Lake of Death that you guys have here."

They all stared at me.

"That's not what immersion therapy is," Hermione replied. "It's a therapeutic technique that is used to cure people of a sort of fear or obsession with any object or person or experience. It is built on the foundation of prolonged exposure to the source of obsession."

Although she sounded like she was regurgitating a textbook, I couldn't help but smile. Prolonged exposure to Draco Malfoy. Sign me up.

"I'll try that one," I said, trying not to sound so chipper. Hermione looked depressed. Harry looked disgusted. Ron was eating something – again.

It took like five seconds to get down to the dungeons and suddenly we were standing in front of a small stone room where many kids in green capes were reading books intently.

Draco was easy to find with his Lady Gaga hair, and before I knew it I had sat down next to him, squeezing onto the same chair and rejoicing at the small points of contact between us.

"We're going to expose ourselves to each other," I gleefully whispered into his ear. He grinned at me, a half-smirk that made my spine tingle with heat.

"That's not what I meant," Hermione grouched. "Since she couldn't go cold turkey, I thought over-exposure would cure this little…"

As she looked for some rude word, both Draco and I glared at her, and she decided against it.

"So, I want you two to go somewhere alone and just… get tired of each other." She sighed, clearly not liking the idea, and stomped off before she had to see the two of us together any longer.

"So," I offered coyly, "can you think of any way for us to get tired?"

That was a cheesy pick up line. I would have felt embarrassed, but somehow Draco's hand was resting on my knee and by the jumpy light in his eyes, he wasn't upset by my lack of creativity.

This time, when Draco turned to lock his bedroom door, I was happy to be trapped in a room with him. I promptly plopped down on the bed. He nonchalantly removed his outer cloak, his gray vest, and loosened his green tie. Why was he wearing so much clothing? I almost whined aloud.

After a moment, he sat down next to me on the bed, leaving a buffer between us.

"C'mon," I murmured, hooking my hands around his tie and pulling him towards me, "I'm not sure how long we have before Miss Bossy comes barging back in here with more therapy ideas."  
I leaned in to kiss him with the plan of continuing on to just ravish him completely, but he pulled away.

"No," he replied slowly.

"What?" I asked, drawing back in shock. A slithering feeling of rejection had made my stomach turn over, made a coldness creep over my body.

"You heard what Granger said," he drawled, a little smirk creeping onto his face. "The law is very clear, and she read it closely."

He leaned in closer, leaving a hair's breadth between us, his soft breathing caressing those small hairs behind my ear. I shuddered involuntarily – a shudder that unsettled my stomach further, but in a different way. It was wonderful that we were always on the same page.

"I know," I replied, snaking my way around so that my face was nestled in his neck, except not touching his skin. I could feel the warmth of his pulse radiating across my lips, teasing me. "And we both know that we can't risk any issues with this being… non-consensual."

He raised his hand and ran it over the air above my arm, and it was as though I could almost feel his fingers touching my arm.

"She is always right," he whispered into my collarbone, skimming his nose across my button-down shirt. Every inch of me was screaming, but I felt my muscles give way, and as I slid backwards onto the pillow, I felt my eyes close.

It was terrifying in a wonderful way. Unable to see him, I could only feel his presence hovering somewhat, felt the static as his hands almost touched mine.

When I opened my eyes, he was above me, staring into my eyes with his piercing gray stare. I felt my lips part. He glanced down over my face, and it was like I could feel the touch of his gaze spreading a simmering line across my skin.

After a moment he sighed, spreading warm, musky breath across my face, and then rolled back onto the other side of the bed. We both stared at the canopy for a minute.

"I'm in trouble," he confessed.

"Why?" I asked, fighting to keep my gaze on the intricately twisted draperies and not on his face.

"I made a promise that I can't keep," he replied, sounding tortured. I rolled over, lying on my side to watch as his face contorted in that fear that had been lurking in his eyes for so long.

"It's alright," I murmured as comfortingly as I could, running a hand along his burly shoulder, trying to keep my own panic at his panic disguised.

"You know that Dark Lord that Dumbledore was talking about?" he whispered, and it sounded like tears were collecting at the back of his throat. I nodded mutely. "Well, my father used to work for him, and he got sent to a sort of… jail… recently, and so this summer—"

There was a sudden sharp intake of breath, but it wasn't me, and it wasn't Draco. Draco sat bolt upright, and shouted a spell at his door. It swung open onto nothingness with a loud bang, and he sprang angrily out into the hallway.

"What's going on?" I asked, jumping up to follow.

"Potter!" snapped Draco. "He's been listening, and he can't hear that, and he always seems to _know_."

He sounded anguished, angrily striding down the corridor.

"But no one was outside your door," I reminded him, trying to sound soothing.

"That doesn't mean anything," he snapped. "There are ways… This is a magical world, Vera. We may have magic, but the other side does too!"

He had wandered into an empty hallway where the blank walls and a few concerned portraits watched us silently.

"We need somewhere to be alone," he muttered, taking broad strides. He paced across the hallway. "Somewhere Potter can't find us," he continued, pacing back. "A place where we can hide." For a third time he paced.

"Uhm, Draco," I hesitantly offered. He glanced at me. A door had slowly immerged from the wall. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't there before."

"The Room of Requirement," he breathed. "That's how it works."

He quickly pulled open the door and pulled me inside.

"Potter used this last year for his stupid little club," he muttered, excitedly rifling through the room. It was filled to the brim with little bits of crap – broken record players singing a bar of bad opera over and over, fraying carpets rolled up and leaning against piles of other things, bureaus and cabinets and roller-skates and silly pointed hats.

"Amazing," Draco murmured. He was like a kid in a candy shop. I was just happy that the fear was gone, that his face was clear again and the tears were gone from the back of his throat. I wandered around as he began digging excitedly through the piles. There was an old mirror that I ran my hands across, surprised when my touch left a mark. I kicked a pair of boots, and watched in awe as they began to perform a wild jig.

"What's this?" I asked, opening a tall cabinet. It was beneath a sheet.

"A Vanishing Cabinet," Draco called back, now looking through a bookshelf with unmasked excitement. "They were pretty popular a while ago because they can…"

And suddenly he broke off, dropped the books, and hurried over. He examined the cabinet, pulled off the sheet that was draped over it, and slid his fingers over the carved surface.

"Veracity Cole, you are a genius," he breathed, staring at the cabinet with unmasked adoration.

"I am?" I asked, staring at him with unmasked adoration.

"Oh, yes," he replied, a genuinely happy smiling spreading across his face.


	7. A Cinderella's Prince Charming

"You've been at that for hours," I whined, running my fingers along the shiny door in complete boredom. All I could see of Draco was the backs of his grey trousers and a highly-flattering posterior view, but I wanted him to pay attention to me and not that stupid cabinet I had found accidentally, no matter what this implied about my IQ apparently.

"You aren't a patient one, are you." He sounded thrilled and amused by this, as though he would have chucked me under the chin had he not been waist-deep in some vanishing cabinet.

For what seemed like the umpteenth time he sprang up and darted from the cabinet to a fireplace, where he shoved his head into the flames. This didn't bother me as much as it should; instead of being concerned for his welfare, I found myself upset that he was looking into a pile of smoldering logs rather than in to my (possibly smoldering-hot) face. At least, assuming he found me as attractive as I found him, which seemed a statistic impossibility. Judging by my intensity…

Initial findings had proved inconclusive, because, of course, my first impression was not influenced by whatever hocus-pocus was now toying with me like a puppet master. Evidence: residual traces of attraction towards other boys (example: Blaise, Harry, Ron). Explanation: the spell and its somewhat increasing doses of whatever love potion I was duped with currently. As I pondered my dilemma, I enjoyed the view of Draco crouched into the fire from my vantage point as I leaned against the cabinet with undisguised glee.

He shifted somewhat uncomfortably in the fire.

"I hope you aren't burning off that hair of yours," I called teasingly.

He turned to regard me with a smirk, his left shoulder disappearing into the flames as though it were simply a curtain. Then he turned back to the flames, calling back towards me, "You know I hate it when you check out my arse like that."

I giggled despite myself.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't do that same," I replied, suddenly extremely interested in my fingernails as he stood to return once more to the cabinet.

"That," he murmured as he passed me, raising a single eyebrow, "would be completely different."

He was now buried completely in the cabinet so that I could only see the shiny soles of his perfectly new-looking black shoes.

"Sexist," I called after him, peeking into the unfathomable depths of the cabinet.

"Hey," he replied, suddenly forcing me out of the cabinet and pinning me against the nearest wall. "What did I just tell you?"

We both dissolved into giggles for a while too long, and he dipped his face dangerously close to mine in an effort to regain his breath. Somehow this resulted in a completely vertical embrace, that needed only an obliging couch - or, dare I say, bed - to facilitate some activities that both of us would probably regret in approximately nine hours.

Of course, we both came to realize this at the same point and he quickly stepped back, returning a comfortable personal space that buffered our intensely-muddled minds and bodies. Somehow I was fixing his tie absentmindedly.

"I hope I didn't get you into trouble," I murmured. He smoothed the top of my hair in a somewhat condescending way that I didn't really mind.

"It's just like them to set me up like that."

He sighed heavily and returned slowly to the cabinet, probably worrying about what (an apparently invisible) Harry had heard outside his bedroom door.

"Did I at least make up for it?" I asked hesitantly.

There was a moment of silence and he slowly crawled back out of the cabinet, grinning broadly.

"I would say so." He pulled open the door and gestured for me to enter. "It's fixed."

I took a step forward gingerly, peering into the blackness with some remaining reservations.

"Really?"

He took on an offended pout as though my questioning his skills was some affront, and then trotted obligingly before me.

Somehow we both fit.

"Ready?"

He had asked me this before; I hoped the sensation following wouldn't be that rollercoaster-falling.

It was worse.

When I could finally breathe again (this time gasping without even the appearance of laughing) Draco was opening the door onto some dingy room.

It was silent. I had spent the previous hours in a room with an annoying bar of opera and the fluttering of charmed letters like gnats above my head. This room was like a vacuum, and the light filtered in green instead of that rosy-glow that the flames of his school gave.

I cautiously tip-toed out of the cabinet. Draco strode out impatiently behind me.

"Where are we?" I whispered, reaching out with curious fingers to brush my hands across the grimy glass cases around.

Draco was suddenly grim. "Still en route," he murmured.

"To where?" I asked, the thrill of excitement (as though I hadn't had enough of that already that day) flushing my cheeks as I whirled to look at him.

"C'mon." He grinned, mirror to my sudden high, and grabbed my hand. He towed me quickly out of the greenish shop down a dingy corridor. We were running, up a flight of moldy stairs and suddenly we were standing in the sunlight, and he was gradually towing me past these bright stores where candies and owls and magic tricks were proudly displayed in the storefronts.

He squeezed my hand, reveling in my awe.

"It's beautiful," I murmured, staring over witches' hats into the clear British sky.

"Stop staring," he quipped, "you're making me jealous."

* * *

"Let me try that."  
I leaned over and slowly licked the perfect dollop of ice cream that was perched as a third tier on the massive cone Draco was holding with complete composure.

"Mmm," I enthused.

"You like it?" he asked genially.

"No, not so much," I admitted, laughing.

"It's pistachio," he admitted, pausing to reconsider the cone with a somewhat questioning glance. "At least, basically." More laughter. It seemed too good to be true, the massive ice cream cones we each had, where several scoops were towering. Even in the bright sunlight and cool crispness of the sunny day, we weren't rushed by the melting ice cream, something I could accept as magic and just enjoy.

"I don't understand," I explained, mouth full of cookies and cream (or its magical equivalent, which also included chunks of fudge and something peanut-buttery) "how anything that doesn't include chocolate could even attempt to be defined as a dessert."

"What about pie?" Draco asked between his obscene licking attempts. I made a face at his lewdness to which he responded with a laugh. "Not even apple?" he persisted.

"Nope," I replied decisively, taking a taste of the fudge (my second layer). "What about you?" I asked.

"I like pie," Draco responded, turning his cone upside down and munching on the bottom of the sugar cone. Apparently these were gravity-resistant ice cream cones – each scoop remained affixed. It was hard to determine what was more amazing, the ice cream or the wizard.

"No," I corrected myself, "I mean, what about you is weird?"

He looked confused, as though the very idea was insulting. "Nothing."

"No, no," I continued. "Like my dessert pet peeve. What about the world seems really wrong to you?"

"Pie is something really wrong with the world?" he asked, his eyebrows peaking in unbridled amusement, either changing the topic with surprising ease and avoiding my prying, or still so amused by my idiosyncrasies.

"Yes," I replied archly, taking a ladylike lick of my mint chocolate chip layer. "It is falsely qualified and a resolute charlatan of dessert-ed-ness. Now. Your turn."

He thought for a minute, tipping his cone sideways as he stared out into the topiaries that surrounded us (I was particularly amused by the unicorn, witch, and especially the fairy-shaped shrub that was actually fluttering above our heads somehow).

"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I guess no one's really asked me that before."

I sat silently, watching him and daintily enjoying the amazing ice cream.

"I mean," he continued, facing me finally, "there were always assumptions about me – I'm sure Potter gave you a few examples [his voice turned dark at this point, and then cleared somewhat] – and so there was never any time for there to be anything weird about me… Because, of course, my parents had these assumptions too."  
He sounded disgusted by his parents, and once again resumed the massaging of his inner arm while wincing.

"Nothing weird about you?" I asked teasingly. "Or should I just chalk this up to a blonde moment?"  
"A what?" he asked, as though he had never heard the term before.

"I rest my case," I murmured to my cookie dough ice cream.

* * *

It made me feel like such a girl, but I couldn't finish the ice cream mountain no matter how I tried – Draco found this amusing, which made me tempted to attempt eating at least another scoop, but he quickly dismissed this (bad) idea and chucked my cone in a trash bin.

"Now," he said, rubbing any residual ice cream traces of his hands with a businesslike air, "where to?"

I looked at him innocently and he smiled, grabbing my hand to once more pull me through the crowds. He paused under an awning that alternated raspberry and chocolate colored stripes.

"Although you aren't a patient person," he began calmly, tucking a few stray curls behind my ear, "I want you to try and hold it together, okay?"

I was distracted by the contact his warm hand made as it brushed my neck, but not distracted enough to not be miffed by his little insult. In response, I made a highly-attractive face at him that may have included me sticking out my tongue in mature disapprobation.

There was a little bell on the door that tinkled as I entered, my heels shushing across the luscious wine-red carpeting. At the noise of the bell a small witch poked her head out from a sort of back room and came trotting over.

"Hello Mr. Malfoy," she began obsequiously, sounding out of breath as though frightened of the gorgeous blonde boy that had an arm around my shoulders.

"Madam Malkin," he replied by way of greeting somewhat condescendingly, thunking a large pile of gold coins that he had somehow found in his pocket on to the counter. "My friend here needs some dress robes."

Feeling left out of the conversation, and needing an excuse to lean in towards Draco, I whispered jokingly into his ear, "Don't worry, I already have a bathrobe." He smirked at my exaggerated ignorance and rewarded my attention-mongering with a gorgeous grin.

"This way, Miss," the Malkin lady called, somehow still sounding breathless, and led me behind a curtain where she unceremoniously began to strip me.

"I can undress myself," I muttered crossly, feeling uncomfortable as she unabashedly began removing my socks.

I heard Draco guffaw from outside.

"You really don't have to stay, _honey_," I called back sarcastically.

He poked his head into the dressing room, apparently unaware of the increasing scantiness of my outfit as the Malkin lady began removing more layers. "It's alright," he murmured, indecorously trailing his eyes over my body. Madam Malkin made a little noise in the back of her throat as though this upset her, but apparently she remembered that stack of gold coins and contented herself with clucking to herself and shaking her head.

"Any chance that you'll be getting some robes?" I inquired with false politeness.

"Oh no," Draco replied, grinning. "Madam Malkin just finished another lovely dress robe for me." Somehow he produced a hanger holding what appeared to be a very nice tuxedo that he had been concealing behind his back; he draped it unceremoniously across a nearby chair.

"Would you like to step over here?" asked Madam Malkin. I followed obligingly to an angled set of mirrors. Still making barely-audible noises of disapproval, she began to measure me quickly as Draco watched from the red velvet chair with undisguised delight.

"How is it," I asked casually as Madam Malkin shuffled away to go find something in the back room, "that you always manage to undress me while remaining completely clothed yourself?"

Draco grinned. "I'm a sexist pig, remember?" he asked, my favorite expression of his, this sexy little half-smirk, making me temporarily forget that we were in a public setting.

"Not fair," I repeated instead, turning back to the mirror in faked superciliousness.

"Fine," Draco smiled. I heard him walk over, and by the time I turned he was unbuttoning his shirt. "I suppose I should check to make sure this doesn't need any last minute alternations."

I have no idea what Madam Malkin thought when she returned to find both of us in our skivvies (Draco's a somewhat posh green silk variety; mine a sadly mundane white cotton set), but I couldn't really think to care, to be honest. I was somewhat distracted by the muscular planes of Draco's bared skin. Because as much as I hated the way he had been eyeing me like a piece of property for those past seventeen hours, I couldn't help but explore the perfect curves of each muscle.

"What did I tell you about staring," Draco murmured out of the corner of his mouth at me. I was surprised to see the traces of a blush on his snowy complexion, and blushed in response. Madam Malkin resumed her clucking and shoved a garment over my head.

When I could see something other than the dark plum fabric over my face, I was staring at my own reflection. With my peripheral vision I was vaguely able to establish the fact that Draco was buttoning up the tuxedo-type white shirt. My own attire was equally fancy. Madam Malkin was tugging at the straps so that the sweetheart neckline fell perfectly. I fiddled with the clinging bodice and the long strait skirt of the dress. My legs felt a cool brush of wind; apparently there was a thigh-high slit along my right side. I investigated it in the mirror to determine just how revealing it was.

"Stop it," Draco muttered next to me, now affixing mother-of-pearl cufflinks. "You look gorgeous."

The gravity-pull I had been feeling must have been originating in his silvery eyes; as he turned to look at me, I felt puppet strings pulling me towards him. It was like I wasn't moving, but instead the world was moving around us.

Madam Malkin chose this moment to stab me in the ankle with a pin (I hadn't realized she was even hemming the dress) and I quickly withdrew from my somewhat amorous intentions.

"She cannot watch those pins, can she," Draco whispered somewhat nervously, as though he was embarrassed about just how close we had come, once again, to kissing.

"Yeah," I laughed, sounding somewhat asthmatic for some reason. I coughed to hide the feeling, and we continued staring straight ahead into our respective mirrors in silence.

* * *

It seemed like an eternity until Madam Malkin straightened up and somewhat angrily said, "All done."

The distance between Draco and me was almost tangible, as though I could feel his aura somewhat a foot to my left. We were both staring at our own reflections and secretly trying to check each other out from the corners of our eyes.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me.

"Draco," I began slowly, turning to him, "I can't let you buy me this."

"Why?" he asked, scowling. "I want to."

"You want to _now_," I replied, feeling suddenly cold in the spaghetti-strap gown. "But tomorrow…"

He turned and glared at me in a very scary and very attractive way.

"I want to show you my life for the next six hours," he replied in a somewhat overly-intense way.

"Why?" I asked, sounding awed despite myself.

"Why does that matter?" he asked, offering me his arm. I couldn't help myself; suddenly I was stepping into my heels and following him out the door.

* * *

Three hours later and I was wondering where the time had gone. It was a blur of perfect silverware and flickering candles and beautifully ornate rugs and a little magically animated fountain. I could taste the perfect food that Draco's gold coins were buying and see the crystal chandeliers reflected in his silver eyes.

Somehow I was standing from dinner, my mouth frozen in a tiny, shy smile.

"That was perfect," I remarked as we walked out. He was leading me down a pathway towards the dark alley we had originally come from. He smiled back at me, looking completely infatuated, just the way I was feeling. I could hear my heels striking the cobblestones below, but it was like my head was floating separate from my body, bouncing like some balloon happily, my whole body numb and separate in the happiness that kept my face in that somewhat silly grin. Somehow this made me blush and look down at the streets as they passed underneath my feet.

"Ladies first," he offered, holding open the vanishing cabinet. How were we back at the store already? It was all spinning so fast, as though time were accelerating.

When we emerged from the Room of Requirement so late in the evening (it must have been at least ten o'clock) Harry and his goons were no where to be seen. Draco led me back up the stairs to his dorm room; I recognized the way, but it was nice to have him hold my hand so I said nothing.

For a third time I was locked into his room, but this time it was with a somewhat suggestive grin as he snuggled into his silken green sheets, still in his Bond tuxedo. I curled up next to him, the grapey fabric of my dress folding into the green sheets.

We stared at each other for a few minutes.

"How long do we have?" I whispered.

In response, Draco unlatched his Rolex-type watch and chucked it into a pile of clothing in the corner of his room. We both knew that somewhere, some time soon, there would be a clock striking midnight. But as his watch impacted the ground with a resolute, decisive thunk, Draco turned to me with that insanely-attractive expression that kept me from worrying about what pumpkins and mice this evening could end in.

And finally, after twenty-three hours of torturous waiting, he leaned in to kiss me.

* * *

I awakened that morning without any blankets on. My brain was a mess of molasses sliding in my brain, and as I vaguely began to reconnect those synapses I felt a smile sneak across my lips as my fingers traced the outline of my mouth. My other hand trailed along the bed sheets, exulting in the warm softness of the jersey sheets.

I sat bolt upright (a mistake, as always) and was shocked by my mundane surroundings – my dorm posters, the later morning light sifting in through my small, dirty window, the glimpses of white cinderblock wall poking through between my pictures. A quick turn sideways (flinging my somewhat matted hair in a flip that recalled Severus Snape) and I found my room empty – no roommate, and no Draco Malfoy.

For some reason this uncoiled a sort of snake in my stomach, an uneasiness somewhere centered in my torso that made me wrap my arms around my midsection. I knew this was coming, I reminded myself, the low after such an amazing high. Had it been worth it? Why had they let me remember?

And if it was just magic, why did I feel like crying?

There was a knock on the door and I stood slowly, ruffling my hair. I took a sip of water from my bedside table to ease the somewhat cliched lump that was already tugging at the back of my throat. I had only known him for twenty-four hours, I tried to tell myself. And I didn't even have a glass slipper.

In fact, I didn't even have pants on - somehow I had torn them off in my sleep and they were in a little heap by my bed, but my head was throbbing and after spending half a day somewhat in Great Britain without pants on, I figured an American university dorm was nothing. I wrenched the door open with a little too much force and staggered as the hinges gave way too easily. A whiff of woodsmoke and ashes buffeted my face in the rush of wind.

"Can't you ever wear pants?" I heard an exasperated voice inquire.

Of course, it came out sounding like a strange foreign language due to his British accent. That took a few moments of my thought to decode it to real English.

His silvery eyes were smiling as they strayed unabashedly over my bare legs. And I was grinning as I looked over his familiar, muscular frame beneath that British school boy uniform.

"Hi," he smiled, "I'm Drake Malloy, the new exchange student." He flashed a shiny new student ID under my nose. "I'm a little jetlagged from the time change… could you show me around?"

"How?" was all I could ask.

"It's amazing what time difference and a little magic can accomplish," he whispered. "Especially when it comes to enrolling part time in two universities."

I smiled at him, besotted, clinging to the door frame to remain upright.

"So… are we starting with a tour of your bedroom?" He trailed his eyes over me once more.

I slammed the door in his face. This time, I was going to do this right.

THE END.


End file.
